*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78715 ***

                              STICKY ROPES

                              W. C. Tuttle

  Author of “The Ranch of the Tombstones,” “Tramps of the Range,” etc.


“Dusty” Corbett licked his dry lips and stared up at a morning sky.
Somehow the waking was painful, and realization came slowly. He rolled
his head and stared at the forefeet of a shaggy-legged bronco.

Some straw and a bunch of fox-tail grass seemed to irritate the back
of his neck, and he swore wonderingly as he sat up and surveyed his
surroundings.

He was, or rather had been, lying in the exact center of a corral, in
which were several loose horses. The ground was lumpy and uneven, which
accounted partly for the cramp-pains in his neck and shoulders.

On the top pole of the corral sat a long, lanky cowboy, humped like a
buzzard, puffing negligently on a very limp cigaret. Dusty surveyed
him closely through squinted eyes. Dusty was no beauty; not by any
manner of means. His eyes were habitually squinted and set in mats of
grin-wrinkles. His nose was deformed from many hard smashes, and,
although still in his twenties, he looked to be forty.

After a close scrutiny of the tall cowboy, he spat dryly and scratched
his mop of dust-colored hair, which scraggled down over his forehead.

“What in ----’s goin’ on?” he asked hoarsely.

“You been drunker’n seven hundred snakes,” grunted the tall one
seriously.

“Um-m-m!” Dusty licked his lips thirstily. “Weary, that ain’t
reasonable.”

“Weary” Willis rubbed his ear violently, which action dropped his wide
sombrero down over his left eye.

“It ain’t,” agreed Weary. “It ain’t noways reasonable f’r a sheriff
e-lect to do a thing like that.”

Dusty got to his feet and dusted himself with his hat as he walked over
to the corral fence, started to climb up beside Weary, but decided that
the accomplishment was not worth the effort, and leaned against it
instead.

“You’re takin’ office t’morrow,” stated Weary, “and right away yuh gits
loaded to the gills and bunks in the corral. My ----, ain’tcha got no
pride, Dusty?”

“Yeah,” Dusty nodded. “I got pride, Weary. ----, yes, I’ve got a heap of
pride--lotsa pride. But what I needed was capacity--not pride!”

“You ain’t con-trite, that’s a cinch.”

“Aw, where’d yuh git that word?” Dusty grew belligerent. “You lay off’n
them big words, cowboy. ’F yo’re goin’ to be my deputy, why in ---- do
yuh suffer me to lay out here in the open?”

“I ain’t no bouncer,” said Weary. “Nobody hired me to throw drunks out
of the corrals.”

“Aw-w-w,” protested Dusty, “yuh ain’t sore at me, are yuh, Mister
Willis? C’m here t’ me!”

As he spoke he grasped Weary by both feet and yanked him loose from his
perch. The tall cowpuncher hooked his elbows around the top pole and
tried to hang on, but Dusty was not to be denied, and a moment later he
was sitting on Weary’s chest, and Weary was begging to be released.

“Ain’t no corral-bouncer, eh?” jeered Dusty. “Let yore boss lay out in
the corral, will yuh? Beg to be excused before I turn yore long nose
upside down and let the next rain storm drown yuh.”

“Hol’ on!” begged Weary. “Leggo m’ ribs. Yee-ow-w! Dusty, fer ----’s
sake, lemme up! I ain’t tol’ yuh half the news.”

“Go on and tell it,” Dusty grinned. “I’m listenin’.”

“’Member leavin’ yore paint pony at Smalley’s hitch-rack last night?”

“Y’betcha. Whatsa joke?”

“He’s went,” declared Weary seriously.

“Thasso?” Dusty spat reflectively and squinted down at Weary’s serious
face.

“Who took him?”

Weary rolled his head negatively.

“I dunno. There’s a piece of rope hangin’ there on the hitch-rack, and
it’s been smeared----”

Dusty got slowly to his feet and released Weary, who also got up and
leaned against the fence. Dusty squinted closely at Weary, as though
afraid it was a joke, but Weary was in deadly earnest.

“Sticky-rope, eh?” queried Dusty.

“Smeared with syrup, I reckon,” stated Weary softly. “I ain’t said
nothin’ to anybody, Dusty. I knowed you was some’ers around; so I left
it t’ you.”

Dusty rolled a cigaret slowly, shaping it with great care, after which
he let the tobacco sift out on the ground and crumpled the paper in his
fingers. Weary watched him and marveled at such a show of emotion.

“How much did yuh drink last night?” asked Weary.

Dusty squinted closely at Weary, as if about to tell him that it was
none of his business, but the serious expression changed, and he
grinned. When Dusty grinned, it was like the sun breaking through
the clouds after a week of dreary weather. His face lost its homely
contour and became a magnet to children and dogs.

“How many drinks? About six.”

“Lost all his education in one night,” declared Weary, speaking directly
to a fuzzy-looking gray bronco. “Somebody throwed a monkey-wrench into
his countin’ apparatus.”

“Six drinks,” declared Dusty emphatically. “S-i-x!”

“Spells, but can’t count.” Weary shook his head dolefully. “‘Sapphire’
Smalley’s liquor shore doth do queer things to a cowpuncher.”

“Had two drinks with you, t’ begin with,” declared Dusty, checking them
off on his fingers. “Then I had one with Dixie Miller and one with Low
Hat Lawson. Pretty soon I don’t take no drinks f’r a long time and then
I has one with Smalley, and buys one in return. From that on I kinda
loses m’ memory, but nobody can tell me that I don’t remember when I
takes a drink!”

“What was yuh drinkin’ out of--a washtub?” Weary seemed very skeptical.
“Six drinks don’t act thataway. Mebbe yore stummick was empty, Dusty.
I’ve knowed hooch t’ act thataway.”

“Yeah? Well, now this is a ---- of a time to come and expose yore
wisdom, Weary. Let’s go and take one lingerin’ look at that hitch-rack.”

They went through the narrow alley between the Eagle River stage office
and the livery-stable. About half a block up the street from where they
struck the rough sidewalk was the hitch-rack, just beyond the entrance
to Sapphire Smalley’s saloon.

Several horses were dozing at the long rack, but Dusty’s tall,
Roman-nosed pinto was not in evidence. The town of Calumet was not a
busy place at this time in the morning. In fact, Calumet never did
appear to be busy.

Dusty and Weary walked to the hitch-rack and leaned indifferently
against the top-rail, while they considered the short piece of rope,
which hung across the rack, where Dusty had left Paint.

It was an inoffensive-looking piece of worn lariat rope, but sticky
with a substance resembling syrup. Dusty wrinkled his nose away from
the smoke of his cigaret and shoved his thumbs down inside his
cartridge belt, while he cogitated deeply.

“Well,” he stated finally, “mebbe I talked too ---- much last night.”

“Prob’ly,” agreed Weary, dryly. “You mostly allus do. F’r instance?”

Dusty grinned widely and brushed his hand across his lips.

“Declared m’ platform, I reckon. Low Hat got to arguin’ that Chet Taylor
had been a good sheriff, and the bartender said that Chet didn’t do
nothin’ but draw his pay every month. Low Hat said he didn’t blame Chet
a ---- bit f’r not tryin’ too hard to nose out the Sticky Ropes, and
then I, like a ---- fool--” Dusty rubbed the back of his neck and looked
soberly down at his toes--“I speaks right out in church, and proclaims
that I’m the little hummin’-bird what is ordained t’ make this Sticky
Rope outfit line up and say their prayers.”

“And you only had six drinks?”

Weary glared wickedly at Dusty, who shook his head.

“Up to that time I only had three. Aw, I wasn’t drunk, but I must ’a’
been exhilarated t’ beat ----. Anyway, Paint’s gone, and I can sure
appreciate the feelin’s of anybody what tried t’ ride him.

“When I buys that bronc’ from Cherokee Jim he’s honest about the
failin’s of the pinto. He says t’ me:

“‘---- bad hoss! Yo’ seeum spots? Devil mark him so he no make mistake
an’ ride um when hoss die.’

“It took me three weeks and two busted ribs to prove that I could ride
him, and now some of them danged thievin’, murderin’, rope-packin’
devils has swiped him.”

“Don’t holler,” begged Weary. “My ----, yuh don’t need t’ advertise
yore ambitions and failin’s. Remember that yo’re the new sheriff, and
a sheriff has got t’ be kinda dignified and thoughtful.”

“My gosh, I’m thoughtful enough,” declared Dusty earnestly. “I sure
was plumb attached t’ that painted critter and I’m packin’ a hunk of
lead f’r the jasper that lifted him.

“Took m’ saddle, too!” exploded Dusty, after a moment’s thought. “My
gosh, I never thought about that before! Seventy-dollar hull, fifty
feet of danged good lariat and a silver-mounted bridle. Huh! I’m
madder than ---- right now!”

Dusty drew his hat down over his eyes and headed for the door of
Smalley’s saloon, while Weary slouched along behind him, half-hobbling
on his run-over heels.

A bad split in the voting strength of the Democratic and Republican
parties had been the means of throwing the election to Dusty Corbett,
who had been nominated on the Republican ticket, in a county where the
Democratic vote was nearly two to one.

Buck Walsh had been beaten by Scott Magruder for the Democratic
nomination, but Buck ran Independent and split the vote to such an
extent that Dusty won by a big margin. The election of a sheriff in
Big Bear County was of more local interest than the election of a
President of the United States. It was a he-man’s job and gave a
certain amount of anxiety to those interested in the activities of
their leading peace-officer.

And also there was the Sticky Rope gang to take into consideration.
Who they were, no one knew. Their trade-mark was a short section of
rope, which had been dipped into syrup and left hanging prominently
at the place of their activities.

For over a year they had been leaving their trade-marks hanging in
Big Bear rangeland, and their crimes ranged from rustling to murder.
Not only was the rope an ear-mark of their depredations, but it also
served as a warning to those who became too active in trying to solve
the identity of the gang.

In two instances it had caused the recipient to sell out and leave
the country. No one seemed immune from them; yet there had been
little active work done to apprehend them. It was a case of “suspect
thy neighbor and keep still about it.”

Dusty and Weary went into Sapphire Smalley’s saloon and gambling parlor
and leaned on the bar while the bartender tended to their wants.
Swampers were busy cleaning out the dirt and débris of the night’s
activities and the low-ceilinged room resounded hollowly to the clatter
of chairs and scraping of table-legs.

Sapphire Smalley, a tall, gaunt man, with a flowing mustache, was
slowly checking up the night’s receipts at his desk behind the front
end of the bar. He was dressed in a soft, white silk shirt, striped
trousers and patent-leather pumps, and the cerise four-in-hand, which
circled his collar, was decorated with a six-carat yellow sapphire. On
the third finger of his left hand was another yellow sapphire, which
was even larger than the one in his tie, and from each cuff flashed
the yellow light from two more large sapphires.

Dusty stood on the bar-rail and considered the profile of Smalley so
intently that the gambler turned his head and looked at Dusty.

“Howsa business?” asked Dusty.

Smalley brushed his mustache tenderly and seemed to register that it was
none of Dusty’s business, but said--

“Oh, all right; why?”

“Figurin’ in a loss of one pinto bronc’, a perfectly good saddle and a
twelve-dollar bit?”

Smalley turned partly around and looked intently at Dusty.

“What do you mean, Corbett?”

“This is what I mean.” Dusty leaned closer but did not lower his voice.
“My horse was stolen from yo’re hitch-rack last night.”

Smalley smiled deprecatingly and shook his head.

“I’m not responsible for horses at the rack.”

“No,” agreed Dusty. “But I’m holdin’ yuh responsible, Smalley. Cause
why? ’Cause yore bartender handed me a herd of knockout drops last
night; that’s why.”

Sapphire Smalley’s face did not register any emotion whatever, but his
eyes expressed unbelief. He looked quizzically at the bartender, who had
halted work and was listening closely. Dusty shook his head.

“Not this one, Sapphire. This happens last night.”

“But why would he dope you, Corbett?”

“Remains t’ be seen, as the undertaker said when the coffin’ busted.
Anyway, m’ pinto is gone.”

Dusty did not mention the piece of rope. He did not trust Sapphire
Smalley, although he did not feel that Smalley had anything to do with
doping him.

“What makes you think you were doped?” queried Smalley.

“I only took six drinks, and I woke up this mornin’ in a corral. How
long does it take a shot of that kinda stuff t’ hit yuh?”

“I don’t know what kind of stuff you got,” smiled Sapphire. “Maybe you
drank six drinks on an empty----”

“Aw-w-w, ----!” exploded Dusty. “Yo’re castin’ a lot of reflections on
m’ insides. ’F I thought I didn’t have stummick enough t’ stand for six
drinks, full or empty, I’d have it cut out by a horse doctor and get me
a gizzard.”

Dusty turned away from the bar and started for the door, but turned and
spoke directly to Smalley.

“You better wise-up that night bartender; so he’ll have a ---- of a good
alibi, Smalley.”

“You mean Jeff Wharton?” queried one of the swampers, who was trying to
sweep up some scattered cards near the doorway.

“Stubby mustache and shy a little finger?” said Dusty.

“Yeah. He left on the stage this mornin’, early. Said he was goin’ t’
Moscow, Idaho.”

“Did, eh?” grinned Dusty. “I reckon he had sense enough to come in out
of the rain.”

He and Weary went outside, where they sat down on the sidewalk and
considered the main street of Calumet. About half a block below them,
across the street, a wagon had backed up to the front of the sheriff’s
office and two men were loading in a few pieces of furniture.

“Chet Taylor’s movin’ out,” observed Weary. Taylor was the retiring
sheriff.

“S’pose I’ve got to buy some furniture,” observed Dusty dolefully. “I
worked like ---- to get a chance to spend money for furniture and to
dodge bullets and the county pays me a hundred and ten dollars a
month. Folks will call me sheriff. Hm-m-m! Sounds good, don’t it?
Fine--t’ everybody but me. Cost me one pinto bronc’ and a seventy-five
dollar----”

“Aw, don’t e-numerate yore loss again,” begged Weary. “My gosh,
anybody’d think yore outfit was a wonder. That hull wasn’t worth no
seventy-five dollars, and that pinto wasn’t worth six-bits. He’d kill
yuh some day.”

Dusty nodded seriously and walked back to the rack, where he gingerly
picked up the piece of gobby rope and went straight to the open door of
the sheriff’s office. Weary hobbled along behind him and grinned at Chet
Taylor, the portly ex-sheriff, who was perspiring over the removal of a
small piece of carpet from the floor.

Dusty picked up a hammer, which was lying on a desk, and proceeded to
nail the section of rope to the outside of the door. Taylor watched
him curiously, seriously, when he recognized the symbol. Dusty tossed
the hammer back on the desk and contemplated his handiwork.

“What’s the idea, Dusty?” asked Taylor.

“Advertisin’ the fact that I ain’t a danged bit afraid of the Sticky
Ropes,” grunted Dusty. “They’re a lot of flat-headed buzzards, thass
all, and I’m on their spoor until they high-tails it out of the
county.”

Taylor turned back to his work and carried the piece of carpet out to
his wagon. He had nothing to say regarding the Sticky Ropes. Taylor was
a married man and had several children.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Dusty’s open defiance of the gang was soon known in Calumet and people
walked past the office just to get a glimpse of the innocent-looking
rope nailed to the door. Weary shook his head sadly and went around
with an unlit cigaret hanging to his lip. He was willing to back Dusty
in anything, but he did not care to antagonize an invisible foe.

Dusty and Weary had both worked for the Cross-Anchor cattle outfit,
owned by Scott Magruder, until Dusty’s nomination, which was unsolicited
by Dusty. The primaries had been deadlocked over the nomination, and
Dusty’s name had been suggested. Dusty was known as a fighter, and that
is what the office needed. His defeat was a foregone conclusion, until
the split came, but Dusty had worked hard.

Scott Magruder, Dusty’s former boss, had said many things against
Dusty, and even hinted that Dusty knew quite a lot about the Sticky
Rope gang, but Dusty did not resort to personalities in his campaign.
Perhaps it was because of Stella Magruder, with her big blue eyes and
copper-colored hair, who had always snubbed him and made open remarks
about his homely face.

Stella was eighteen, slender as a reed and rode like a cowboy. She
declared her dislike of Dusty Corbett in no uncertain language, but
behind it all was a lack of sincerity. Others believed her, but
Dusty only grinned softly, and made faces at her until she laughed.
He had not seen her since election and he wondered if his defeat of
her father had caused her to really dislike him.

The books of the sheriff’s office were a mystery to Dusty and Weary.
Neither of them were educated beyond the little “readin’, ritin’ and
’rithmetic” of the rangeland school, and they nodded wisely over
papers, and tried to fool themselves and each other into thinking
that they knew all about it.

“She’s a dead open and shut t’ me,” declared Dusty that night, as he
shoved some papers aside and held his cigaret over the chimney of their
lamp to get a light.

Weary nodded enthusiastically and tilted back from the table, just in
time to miss being the recipient of a bullet, which hummed through the
window, snapped the lamp chimney from under Dusty’s cigaret and splatted
into the wall just over Weary’s head.

Dusty slapped the guttering lamp aside, and it crashed to the floor,
leaving the room in darkness. The crash of the lamp was echoed by two
distinct thumps, as Dusty and Weary flopped to the floor.

“Now wouldn’t that make yuh sore?” complained Dusty. “Gotta buy another
lamp! Dang such a job, anyway!”

“_You_ hung that rope on the door.” Weary’s voice was more than mildly
accusing. “You invited ’em t’ call yuh, Dusty. Didja ever try havin’ a
li’l sense?”

“You don’t have t’ pay for the lamp, do yuh?” demanded Dusty hotly.
“Whatcha kickin’ about?”

“Well, I danged near got killed, didn’t I?”

“Huh!” Dusty’s voice was sarcastic and his boot-heels scraped on the
floor as he got to his knees.

“Reach me the blanket off the top of the bunk, Weary. We’ve gotta cover
that window.”

Dusty got the blanket and edged in close to the window, where he
peered out. Moonlight and the yellow lights from the windows flooded
the street, but the blocky shadows precluded all chances of seeing
who fired the shot.

The report of the gun had caused no one to investigate, as shots in
Calumet were frequent. From Sapphire Smalley’s came the raucous
notes of a three-piece orchestra, while from another direction came
the metallic screech of a worn-out phonograph. A bunch of horsemen
drifted past and dismounted at the saloon hitch-rack; their voices
blending into a meaningless gabble, as they entered the place.

Dusty fastened the heavy blanket over the single window and scratched a
match. Weary was sitting on the floor, with his head against the leg of
a bunk, half-asleep.

Dusty looked at the smashed lamp and procured a candle, which he stuck
into the neck of an empty bottle.

“See anybody?” queried Weary, getting slowly to his feet.

“Not a danged soul,” Dusty shook his head and produced his cigaret
makings. “Them Sticky Ropes has fired their first gun--and--missed!
I’ve got ’em worried, cowboy; I’ve got ’em worried!”

“And that ain’t all,” observed Weary slowly as he drew off one of his
boots. “You’ve got me in the same fix, Mr. Corbett.”

“Want t’ quit?” Dusty squinted closely at Weary, who seemed to be
closely inspecting his boot-heel.

“No-o-o,” Weary shook his head. “I ain’t worth a ---- ’less I’m worried,
Dusty. Le’s hit the hay.”

The next morning the rope was gone from the door of the office, and this
fact seemed to amuse Dusty greatly.

“I tell yuh I’ve got ’em goin’,” he confided seriously to Weary, who
did not seem to share Dusty’s enthusiasm. “I’m the li’l whippoorwill
that’s goin’ t’ knock hard right between their antlers.”

“Yeah,” admitted Weary. “I reckon you got ’em scared--almost. You
scared ’em so bad that I didn’t sleep a wink. Every time I dozed off
a li’l I could see that bullet seepin’ into the window and chasin’
around f’r a chance to bore into m’ head. Yuh scared ’em so bad that
we’ve got to stand with our backs against a tree all day and hang a
blanket over the winder at night.”

“They think we’re scared, don’t yuh know it?” Dusty grinned, paying no
attention to Weary’s flow of sarcasm.

“Them jiggers are mind-readers,” Weary nodded seriously. “’F I’d ’a’
knowed they was goin’ t’ act thataway I’d ’a’ told you and yore deputy
job t’ go plumb t’ ----; but I’m too scared t’ quit now.”

Dusty grinned widely and jammed his hat down over one eye, while he did
a double-shuffle to relieve his feelings.

“I’ve sure got a good start, Weary. Got drunk, had m’ horse stole and
got shot at. ’F that ain’t some start at bein’ sheriff, what would yuh
call it? I’ll borrow your rack-o’-bones and go out to the Cross-Anchor
and get me a bronc’.

“Mac told me he’d sell me one of them Mission-Cross broncs, dirt
cheap, and there’s a hammer-headed gray that looks good t’ me. I’ve
got a saddle out there, too, if the rats ain’t chawed it all up by
this time.”

“Jack Bonn will likely give yuh a good bronc’ and a saddle, ’f yuh ask
him,” grinned Weary.

“That’s one reason I hate t’ go out there,” replied Dusty. “I sure hate
t’ have anybody give me a lot o’ things thataway, and Jack Bonn’ll just
about swamp me with presents.”

Weary grinned. Jack Bonn was the foreman of the Cross-Anchor outfit and
had no use whatever for Dusty and Weary. Bonn was a big, raw-boned,
heavy-handed cowman, with no sense of humor. He had been foreman of the
Cross-Anchor for almost two years and his work was of the very best,
although he was greatly disliked by the wild-riding cowboys of the Big
Bear Range.

Bonn rode alone, bunked alone and seemed to hold himself aloof. He was
stronger than the average cowboy and was reputed to be fast on the draw,
although he had never made a killing in that part of the range. He never
drank to excess, but was a fiend for poker or roulette, at which he
never seemed to win.

Dusty saddled Weary’s horse and swung into the hills. The Cross-Anchor
ranch was about ten miles by the road, which wound in and out of the
draws and circled the Bald buttes, but a short-cut trail over the buttes
lessened the distance by at least five miles. It was a hard climb to the
top of the buttes, but from there a horse could almost slide down to the
little valley, where the Cross-Anchor ranch-house and out-buildings
sprawled among the cottonwoods of Cub Creek.

Autumn had already tinted the foliage with red and gold along the
creek, and from high overhead came the soft gabble of a V-shaped
flock of brant, winging their way southward. Cattle lazied their way
along the bank of the stream. Far beyond, the jagged line of the
Little Rockies was almost lost in a blue haze. In another month the
scene would change to the desolation of Winter, with its blinding
blizzards, bitter cold; when the future of the cattlemen would lie
entirely in the hands of Fate.

Dusty rode in through the big gate and dismounted at the ranch-house
porch. A collie dog sniffed suspiciously at him for a moment and went
into ecstasies of joy, barking and dancing like a wild thing.

A small woman, wearing a handkerchief wrapped around her head and
carrying a rag rug and a broom, came to the doorway. She squinted at
Dusty for a moment and dropped the rug.

“Land sakes, if it ain’t Dusty Corbett!” she exclaimed.

“’Lo, Ma!” Dusty grinned. “Howsa family?”

He walked up the steps and shook hands with her. “Ma” Magruder thought a
lot of Dusty Corbett.

“Cleanin’ house?” Dusty grinned.

“Uh--huh. Gotta be done, Dusty. Mac’s sprained his ankle, and we’ve got
comp’ny comin’. Gotta swamp out the old shack.”

“Mac sprained his ankle, did he?”

“Yeah. Bronc’ fell with him and he tried t’ step into the next county, I
reckon. It ain’t bad, but it makes him cuss all the time. Me ’n’ Stell
moved him down to the bunkhouse, where nobody but Jack Bonn and ‘Shorty’
Miles can hear him take the name of the Lord in vain.”

“Say yuh got comp’ny comin’, Ma?”

“Uh--huh. Couple of friends of Bonn. Man named Ramsey, and his son.
Comin’ out here to go huntin’. Bonn’s goin’ to guide ’em. Say, whatcha
mean by stayin’ away all this time?”

“Well,” grinned Dusty. “I didn’t know how yuh felt about the election,
and----”

“Sa-a-ay!” Mrs. Magruder shook the broom at Dusty.

“Yuh make me tired--you and Weary. What do yuh think we are? Pers’nally,
I’m glad yuh beat Mac. What in thunder does he want of that job? Has t’
hire men t’ help him run this ranch, and then runs for office. Politics!
My gosh, do yuh think I want my husband t’ be a target for every
pistol-packer in the country?”

“Me and Weary got shot at last night.”

“No! Yuh did? Who shot at yuh, Dusty?”

“Through the winder--at night.”

“Aw-w-w!” Mrs. Magruder shook her head and squinted narrowly.

“Dusty, ain’t there some way to stop things like that? Who are these
Sticky Ropes, I wonder? Mac used to say it was a joke, but he’s kinda
convinced that it’s serious.”

“Yes’m, I reckon it’s serious,” grinned Dusty. “Anyway, I’m takin’ it
serious-like. They stole m’ pinto bronc’ and saddle yeste’day, and I’m
out here t’ see ’f I can buy a horse from Mac. He had some o’ them
Mission-Cross broncs, which he said he’d sell.”

“Well, for gosh sakes! Stole the sheriff’s horse and took a shot at him.
I tell yuh, this old range is gettin’ tough, Dusty. I been tellin’ Mac
that we ought t’ sell out and move into town where Stell could get some
advantages. First thing I know she’ll be marryin’ somebody and we won’t
know but what he belongs to the Sticky Rope gang.”

“Who’s she goin’ t’ marry?” asked Dusty blankly.

“Ain’t flung her loop yet,” grinned Ma Magruder, picking up the rug.
“Keep your head up, cowboy. You go down and listen to Mac cussin’ the
bones in his leg while I shake some alkali out of the rugs.”

“Yes’m, Ma, I reckon I will.”

Dusty turned and headed for the bunkhouse, while Ma Magruder squinted
after him, a smile on her face.

“Don’tcha leave before eatin’ time,” she called after him. “You don’t
look like town cookin’ was good for yuh.”

“I’m sure honin’ f’r reg’lar cookin’, Ma,” he called back, as he shoved
open the bunkhouse door.

Scott Magruder looked up from his game of solitaire, as Dusty came
inside. Magruder was a small man, with a lean face and a wispy-gray
mustache, which was invariably chewed even with his lips on one side
and hung below his chin on the other. Just now he was unshaven and
his thin thatch of gray hair showed the lack of a morning combing.

“Hyah, Scott,” greeted Dusty.

“Hyah, Scott,” parroted Magruder sarcastically. “Comin’ out to gloat
over a cripple, are yuh?”

“Nossir.” Dusty shook his head seriously. “I’m plumb sorry yuh sprained
yore ankle, Scott; I wish it had been yore danged neck. As far as I’m
concerned, pers’nally, I don’t care a whoop-galoo ’f yuh broke every
bone in yore body. That’s how much I think of you, yuh old picketpin.

“Yuh slandered me in the campaign. Yuh--yes, yuh did, Scott. Yuh said a
lot of ---- nasty things about me. Yuh hinted that I might belong t’ the
Sticky Rope outfit. I don’t like yuh--nossir. I don’t think yo’re fit t’
go out alone without a keeper. Outside of that, yo’re all right.”

Scott Magruder squinted closely at Dusty and nodded in agreement.

“I believe yuh, Dusty. You always told the truth, as far as I ever found
out, and I betcha you’re right in everythin’ yuh say. Whatcha reckon I
ought to do--shoot m’self in public?”

Dusty’s eyes roved around the bunkhouse, as if everything within those
four walls were strange and wonderful to behold. His glance came back to
Magruder and his face broke into a wide grin, as he held out his hand.

“Hyah, Scott!”

“Well, I’ll be doggoned ’f it ain’t Dusty Corbett!” exclaimed Magruder,
shaking hands violently.

“Long time I no see yuh, Scott.”

“Y’betcha it is, Dusty. Whatcha doin’ for a livin’?”

“Sheriffin’.”

“Thasso? Well, I’m sure glad t’ hear it. Set down and rest your hoofs,
cowboy. Mighty glad t’ see yuh.”

And thus amicable relationship was again established. No denials, no
arguments. The past had been forgotten and forgiven.

“Sure yuh can have one of them Mission-Cross broncs,” said Magruder,
after Dusty had told of the loss of the pinto. “Help yourself. Your
old saddle’s hangin’ up in the barn. Whatcha know about them Sticky
Ropes?”

“I dunno much, but I’m goin’ to, Scott,” declared Dusty. “’F I get ’em
mad enough at me they’ll sure overplay their cards. Who’s these folks
that are comin’ in today?”

“Name’s Ramsey. Jack Bonn knowed ’em for a long time, he says. Got a
lot of money, I reckon. They wants t’ hunt and Jack’s goin’ t’ act as
guide for ’em. Some more of them ---- tenderfeet, I suppose. Have t’
picket ’em out to a guide t’ keep ’em from gettin’ lost.”

“Goin’ t’ live here at the Cross-Anchor?”

“Uh-huh--kinda. Bonn says he’ll hive ’em up at old ‘Snag’ Shirey’s
place, when they’re huntin’, but they’ll be here for quite a spell, I
reckon.”

“Seen old Snag lately, Scott?”

“Couple of weeks ago I seen him and that mongrel hired man of his. Know
him, Dusty?”

“Palo Huston?” snorted Dusty. “I betcha I do. Gets on m’ nerves. Laughs
just like a coyote--kinda lifts his lip, and he ain’t got no chin. Him
and old Snag are a fine pair of coyotes.”

“That’s no lie,” agreed Magruder. “She’s a wonder they ain’t killed each
other a long time ago.”

Came the sounds of some one at the door, and a tall, wry-necked cowboy
with deep-set eyes and prominent teeth came inside. He glanced from
Magruder to Dusty vacantly.

“Hyah, Shorty,” greeted Dusty cordially.

“Well, if it ain’t the sheriff!” exclaimed Shorty Miles. “How’s you-all,
Dusty?”

“I’m-all is all right,” grinned Dusty. “How’s she comin’?”

“Aw’ right, Dusty.”

“Dusty wants t’ get one of them Mission-Cross animals,” explained
Magruder. “Got any handy?”

“Yeah,” thoughtfully, and then to Dusty: “’Member that gray
son-of-a-gun, with a hammer-head? That or’nary lookin’ gray, with pure
white laigs?”

“’At’s the one,” grinned Dusty. “Reg’lar he-hoss.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Shorty. “He shore is. Th’owed Bonn six times,
hand-runnin’. He-hoss and he-devil. Kick the sody out of a biscuit
and never bust the crust. Man, yo’re plumb welcome to him, and a fond
farewell to thee.”

“How much yuh want for him, Scott?” asked Dusty.

“Not a ---- thing. He ain’t worth nothin’ t’ me, and I ain’t sellin’
somethin’ that ain’t worth nothin’. Take him free, gratis for nothin’.
I’d admire t’ see yuh fork him, Dusty. When Bonn couldn’t stay----”

“You gets yore wish,” nodded Dusty. “I’ll switch the saddle off Weary’s
bronc’, and I’ll ride that hammer-head t’ Calumet, or the Sticky Ropes
won’t have me for a target again. C’m on, Shorty.”

The Mission-Cross gray was a wonderful piece of outlaw horseflesh, and
would have delighted the heart of any horseman. Long-coupled,
long-legged, lean as a greyhound, with a coat sparkling like the sheen
of gray silk, in spite of the fact that it had never felt brush nor
comb. The head was long and snake-like, with an almost square muzzle.

It halted in the middle of the corral and looked with suspicion upon
Dusty, who was shaking out the coiled lariat. Twice the tall gray
turned completely around, as if trying to make up its mind just what
to do, and as it started another turn, the loop snapped forward from
Dusty’s hand and dropped over the gray’s head.

With a squeal of rage the gray flung itself sidewise, rearing and
bucking; whirling this way and that, like a gamey fish, trying to shake
loose a hook. Dusty tried to follow up the rope, speaking softly to the
enraged horse, but the outlaw did not understand kindness, and chased
Dusty to the safety of the corral fence.

“I reckon he’s gotta be th’owed,” said Shorty as he shook out another
rope and slid down into the corral. For a moment they had to fight the
gray with rope-ends to keep it from running them down, and when it broke
to get away, Shorty snagged its forefeet in a low-flung loop, and the
tall gray horse almost turned a somersault.

Came a cloud of dust and flying gravel, the thud, as the outlaw went
flat, and Dusty’s voice crowing triumphantly, as he perched on the
gray’s head.

“C’m on with the saddle, Shorty. This is goin’ t’ be some ark t’ ride,
if anybody cares t’ know.”

“You c’n give long odds on that, cowboy,” grunted Shorty, dragging the
saddle over to the prostrate horse, which was blowing sand with its
nostrils and grunting heavily.

“This bronc’ would be worth a fortune t’ some rodeo outfit. Goin’ to use
a bridle, Dusty?”

“Hackamore,” declared Dusty. “I aim t’ ride his tail and hoofs loose,
Shorty.”

“’F yuh do,” grunted Shorty, tying off the latigo, “Jack Bonn won’t sing
so danged high about bein’ the top rider of Big Bear Range.”

Dusty looked up from fashioning the rope hackamore and grinned widely.

“Didn’t know that Bonn thought he was.”

“Ain’t much that Bonn don’t credit himself with,” stated Shorty. “All
set, Dusty?”

“Y’betcha. Lemme do this alone, Shorty.”

“Don’tcha want me t’ ride yuh out of fences?”

“Naw-w-w. Help Scott to the door; so he won’t miss none of it, will
yuh?”

Shorty bow-legged his way swiftly out of the corral and around to
the bunkhouse, where he helped Magruder to a seat in the doorway. A
spring-wagon outfit was just turning into the big gate, and Shorty
swore softly.

“Stop Dusty, if yuh can,” urged Magruder. “He might start somethin’ with
that half-broke team.”

Shorty darted away from the bunkhouse door, but he was too late. From
the corral came a long-drawn yell--

“Yee-e-e-e-o-o-ow!”

Came the splintering rattle of loose corral poles, the heavy thud of a
bucking horse, and around the corner of the long, low barn came Dusty
Corbett atop the gray outlaw.

Dusty had swung sidewise in his saddle and had hooked his right spur
into the cinch. He was not riding before a rodeo jury now--he was
riding to stay in the saddle, and was finding his work cut out for
him, at that.

The rope hackamore gave the horse almost complete freedom of head, and
the horse was taking advantage of this fact. Straight down past the
bunkhouse door came the bucker, plunging in a zig-zag line; sun-fishing,
worm-fencing, spinning like a top; using every art known to a bucking
horse to dislodge its rider.

But Dusty stuck like a burr and fanned the gray’s head with his battered
sombrero, as they headed for the spring-wagon. Jack Bonn, driving the
wagon-team, yelled threateningly at Dusty, while the frightened team
cramped the wagon dangerously and fought to break away.

Dusty had no control over his mount. It was like riding a ship in a
hurricane, without rudder or sail; and it was no fault of Dusty Corbett
that the big gray outlaw crashed into the wagon-team and knocked both
horses down, while the gray outlaw, itself, spun like a top and piled
up in a heap fifty feet beyond.

In range parlance, Dusty “stepped-off,” but his stepping-off was ill
timed and he landed, sitting-down in one of Mrs. Magruder’s hand-raised
rose bushes. From the doorway of the bunkhouse came the voice of Scott
Magruder:

“Ma-a-a-a! Dusty’s settin’ on Clementine!”

The big gray got to its feet, with the hackamore tangled in its front
feet, and fell heavily again. Dusty limped swiftly back and sat down on
its head, while Shorty and Jack Bonn fought to untangle the wagon-team.

Jack Bonn was mad and did not try to conceal the fact as he unfastened
harness and helped the team back to an upright position. Stella and the
two men did not get off the seats until the horses were both calmed
down.

Dusty grinned at Stella and studied the two men with her. One of them
was a large man, smooth-shaved, but the light color of his upper lip
proclaimed that he had but recently shaved off a mustache. His small
gray eyes were shaded with heavy eyebrows, and a cigar was clamped
tightly between his thick lips.

The other was a hard-faced, cynical-looking young man of about
twenty-five years of age, slightly over-dressed and with no doubt about
his own importance.

“Kinda had a jubilee, didn’t we, Stell?” queried Dusty, from his seat on
the gray outlaw’s head.

Before Stella had a chance to reply, Jack Bonn turned from his team and
walked toward Dusty, muttering to himself.

“You danged fool!” gritted Bonn viciously. “Whatcha tryin’ to do around
here?”

“Same t’ you,” replied Dusty calmly. “You busted up m’ ride. I had this
gray poundin’ his own hoofs off, and you had t’ come along and spoil the
fun.”

“Yeah!” spat Bonn. “What in ---- right have you got to be ridin’ that
gray bronc’?”

Dusty got to his feet slowly and stepped aside to let the gray get up.
As it floundered to its feet Shorty Miles caught the hackamore rope.

Dusty walked straight to Bonn, who watched him narrowly. Bonn was bigger
than Dusty, but Bonn was very mad. Dusty grinned at him.

“’F yuh want an answer to yore last question,” said Dusty slowly, “I can
say that it ain’t none of yore ---- business.”

Dusty made a motion to retreat, as he finished, but when Bonn sprang
forward, lashing out with one hand, Dusty dove forward and threw his
whole weight against Bonn’s shins, throwing him forward on his face.

Like a flash Dusty bounced to his feet, dove into the sprawling Bonn
and pinned his face into the dirt, while he snapped Bonn’s gun from
its holster and flipped it aside.

Like an angry bull, Bonn surged to his feet, trying to shake Dusty
loose, but Dusty’s arm was locked under Bonn’s chin and his two spurs
were locked into Bonn’s knees. Bonn cursed chokingly as he staggered
about, and finally threw himself backward to shake the smaller man
loose.

As they went down backward, Dusty flung himself sidewise and Bonn landed
flat on his back alone. The jar of the fall dazed Bonn and he lay flat
on his back and stared foolishly up at the faces about him.

At this point the cynical-looking young man decided to take matters into
his own hands. He stepped in front of Dusty and attempted to shove him
back. Came the dull _chuck_ of a blow and the cynical young man capsized
into Bonn, sitting down almost exactly upon the upturned face of Jack
Bonn, who swore in a muffled voice and squirmed loose.

“Anybody else?” queried Dusty, looking around at Shorty and the other
stranger, whose face was as hard as granite as he looked down at his
son, who was gazing blankly into space and slowly working his jaw. Into
the crowd came Scott Magruder, hopping on one leg. He braced himself
against Shorty and squinted at the two men on the ground. Then he looked
at Dusty.

“Too ---- bad it happened, Dusty. You shore was goin’ to ride that gray
to a fare-thee-well.”

Bonn got slowly to his feet and felt of his empty holster. The cynical
young man followed suit, but he seemed very weary and indifferent to
everything. The big man spoke directly to Bonn--

“Suppose we let things rest as they are for the present and go into the
house.”

Bonn nodded in agreement and led the two men into the ranch-house,
without introducing them to Mrs. Magruder, who was on the steps. Stella
watched them go inside and looked at Dusty, who was staring down at the
ground, where some envelopes, a pencil or two, a note-book and cigaret
papers had fallen during the mix-up.

“Well,” said Shorty softly, “them two strangers got out-wested, that’s a
cinch, and yuh shore combed Mister Bonn and the handsome offspring good
and plenty. Dusty, you got one gosh-awful punch.”

“Uh-nn-n-n-n!” exclaimed Magruder. “That there young Ramsey looked like
he kinda went to seed for a minute. Bonn is goin’ to love yuh, cowboy.
He ain’t never done much except talk about his ability, but I’m bettin’
he ain’t goin’ to scalp-dance this victory.”

Dusty grinned and looked at Stella.

“Yuh ain’t sore at me, are yuh, Stell?” he asked.

“No-o-o, but it is going to make things embarrassing all the way around.
Stranger comes to visit you, and gets knocked down on the door-step.”

“My gosh, that’s right,” dolefully. “I’m plumb ashamed of m’self, Stell.
Still--I dunno.”

“Bonn never introduced ’em to Ma,” stated Shorty.

“Bonn didn’t even know his own name,” grinned Magruder. “Yuh got to
excuse him f’r not doin’ the right thing.”

Dusty grinned and shifted his feet as he examined his right hand, which
was swelling slightly from its contact with young Ramsey’s jaw.

“Yuh lost some things out of yore pocket,” reminded Shorty, pointing at
the litter in the dust.

Dusty picked up the articles and shoved them into his pocket.

“Bonn knew you were here,” volunteered Stella. “We met Weary in Calumet.
You know that homely cowpuncher who works for Snag Shirey, at the Box
S?”

“Palo Huston?” queried Dusty.

“Yes. He ran into us on the street and talked with Bonn and the Ramseys
for a few minutes, while I went into the store. Weary came along as I
came out, and he told us that you were out here. I wouldn’t trust that
Huston very far. Looks like he wasn’t quite all there.”

“Did Weary tell yuh about us gettin’ shot at?” grinned Dusty.

“No. Who shot at you, Dusty?”

“Sticky Ropes.”

Dusty hitched up his belt and told the main incidents of his first day
in office, while he manufactured a cigaret.

“I betcha them Sticky Ropes are just one man,” said Shorty wisely. “Some
cowpuncher’s been eatin’ loco-weed.”

Scott Magruder shook his head.

“No, I don’t think so, Shorty. Somebody shot down twenty head of Dick
Shearer’s cows and left the sticky rope for a marker. I don’t know what
Dick knew about them, but I do know that somebody killed him in the door
of his little line camp on Fisher Creek, and left another rope.

“A week after that a rope was left hangin’ to the door of Clyde Smith’s
ranch-house, and inside of a week Clyde sold out and went into Idaho.
Since then several outfits have lost cows. The Bar-O-Bar has lost at
least a hundred head and have found markers hanging to fence-posts and
linecamp doors. Now, nobody can tell me that it is the work of one loco
cowboy.”

Dusty shook his head.

“I reckon yo’re right, Scott. This country needs cleanin’ out. Mebbe
they’ll get me, ’cause when a feller is talkin’ he never knows whether
or not he’s talkin’ to one of them sons-of-guns; but I’m speakin’ right
up and open, when I say that I’m gunnin’ f’r Sticky Ropes.”

Scott nodded gravely, as Dusty stepped over and took the rope from
Shorty. The gray outlaw merely backed away from Dusty, but the fight
seemed to have been all taken out of it. Perhaps it was still dazed
from the impact with the wagon-team, but at any rate it was a much
subdued horse.

“You ain’t goin’ to ride him, are yuh?” queried Shorty.

“Y’betcha,” nodded Dusty, “I came to get a horse, and I sure got one.”

Dusty led the gray down to the corral, where he put a lead-rope on
Weary’s horse. Shorty helped Scott back to the bunkhouse, and Stella
followed Dusty to the corral.

“Don’t you think Mr. Ramsey is handsome?” queried Stella seriously.

Dusty turned his head and looked at her, as he grunted something
unintelligible and turned back to knotting his rope.

“He has lots of money, too,” volunteered Stella.

“Thasso?”

Dusty was having trouble with the knot.

“Jack Bonn told me that the Ramsey family were very rich. The young
man’s name is Oscar.”

Dusty turned and squinted at Stella.

“Thasso? He tell yuh it was?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully, “he would, I reckon.”

“Said that he wanted to ride horseback with me.”

Dusty jerked hard on the rope and Weary’s horse reared from the
unexpected violence.

“They are going to stay here with us for several weeks,” continued
Stella maliciously. “Oscar said he loved dancing and asked if we had
dances in Calumet. I’ll bet he can dance; he’s so light on his feet.”

“Yeah!” snapped Dusty. “I notice he has trouble keepin’ ’em on the
ground. You tell yore ma that I won’t be able to stay f’r dinner, will
yuh?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Stella indifferently and hurried toward the
house with her head in the air. Dusty gazed dolefully after her and
shook his head.

“---- the luck! I s’pose I said the wrong thing, as usual. Never have no
sense, noway,” and then to the gray outlaw--

“Go ahead and buck and be ---- to yuh!”

He swung into the saddle and set himself for a wild ride, but the tall
gray turned like a gentle horse and went around the corner of the barn,
past the doorway of the bunkhouse and out toward the gate, with Weary’s
horse following behind.

“I hope to die!” exclaimed Shorty Miles from the bunkhouse doorway,
and Scott Magruder echoed his words. Straight toward the bald buttes
went the two horses and rider, while Stella Magruder stood on the
porch and grinned delightedly. She had managed to jar Dusty out of
his usual good-humor, and was delighted.

Dusty was very despondent as he rode into the Bald Butte trail which
led sharply up the right-hand slope of the tallest butte. Dusty knew
that his fight with Bonn and the young Ramsey would make things
embarrassing for the Magruder family, and he also felt that he had
hurt Stella’s feelings.

The gray outlaw squirmed under the touch of the lead-rope, and Dusty
was a bit dubious over what might happen on the narrow trail. If the
outlaw started bucking up there, it might mean that the whole outfit
would go to the bottom of the cañon.

“Mebbe-so, I better herd yuh,” observed Dusty aloud to Weary’s horse. He
urged the gray to the upper side of the trail and shoved Weary’s horse
ahead of him, after taking off the lead-rope.

Higher and higher they climbed, until they reached the fairly level
trail, which wound around the butte and sloped off into the breaks
south and east of Calumet. The upper part of the buttes was broken
cliffs, without a sign of vegetation, but the bottom of the cañon was
heavily brushed with jack-pine and grease-wood.

Suddenly Weary’s horse flung itself sidewise, pawed wildly at the
upper side of the trail and went over backwards; while from beyond
them, somewhere in that jumble of broken rocks came the keen snap of
a rifle.

The sudden whirling of the horse, the shot and the subsequent falling
off the trail frightened the gray outlaw badly, and Dusty was almost
unseated at its first plunge. But instead of bucking, the outlaw drove
ahead with the speed of a quarter-horse; going straight toward the spot
whence had come the bullet.

It was useless for Dusty to try and control the gray with the hackamore;
so he drew his gun, swung low along the gray’s shoulder and prayed that
the bush-whacker might not be a wing-shot with a rifle.

Straight into the jumble of tall rocks raced the gray, running like a
gray ghost, its unshod hoofs making little sound in the dusty trail;
while Dusty’s eyes flashed here and there, swiftly, as he tensed his
gun for the first shot.

Suddenly he caught a flash of colored cloth in the rocks below the
trail. It was only a flash, but he fired quickly before the gray swept
on into another pass between the out-croppings. A bullet zipped past
his head and ricocheted off the rocks beyond him.

The gray snorted and increased its pace a trifle. The trail dipped
downward slightly now and Dusty’s left stirrup scraped the bank, as
the gray swept around the crooked trail.

Dusty holstered his gun and sat upright in the saddle now. He had no
further fear from the man with the rifle now; he only feared for what
this crazy gray might do on the downward trail.

“Boy, boy!” he gritted into the wind, “’F yuh ever hit bottom alive and
well, I’ve sure got a runnin’ horse that’ll throw gravel into the face
of anythin’ on four feet.”

But the gray horse was no fool, and the rockier trail was beginning to
hammer its bare feet badly. Slower and slower became the mad gallop, and
the last fifty feet of the steep trail was made in a slow, jerky gallop,
and they swept out into the gentle slope of the sage-brush hills.

Dusty drew up gently on the hackamore and the gray slowed down to a
walk. Dust still floated upward in a filmy veil from far back along
the trail, but Dusty was unable to see back to the rocky breaks where
the ambush had been laid.

Dusty knew that Weary’s horse was dead. Even if the bullet had only
crippled it the long fall into the cañon would have killed it.

“Gray horse,” said Dusty aloud, “yuh sure done the best thing. ’F
we’d ’a’ tried t’ go back he’d ’a’ got us sure. I betcha he only seen
one horse from where he was at. We was close together and coming in a
dead-straight line to him. Hm-m-m!”

Dusty began wondering who had tried to kill him. He felt that it must
be one of the Sticky Ropes--some one who knew that he had been at the
Cross-Anchor and that he would come back over the Bald Butte trail.

It was an unpleasant sensation to know that he might be shot at from
ambush at any time. He grinned, but with little mirth, and peered back
over his shoulder, as he urged the gray into an easy gallop.

“I reckon I bought into somethin’, when I got m’self elected sheriff,”
he mused aloud. “I had a idea that the Sticky Ropes would get too
danged anxious and show their hand, but it kinda looks like I was
goin’ t’ need as many lives as a cat t’ test out that theory. Anyway,”
he grinned widely and looked down at the bobbing head of the gray
outlaw, “I’ve got a humdinger of a bronc’ under me and I’ve still got
m’ health and girlish laughter. I hate t’ do it, but I reckon I’ve got
t’ be careful--kinda.”

Dusty rode into Calumet and went to the office, where Weary was sitting
half-asleep, with his feet on the desk. In a few words, Dusty explained
about the killing of the horse, and Weary exploded with indignation.

“Hundred dollars, that horse was worth----easy! I tell yuh, that was the
best horse in Big Bear country.”

“Don’t yell,” advised Dusty. “You never sung no praises over that
bronc’ when it was alive. Yuh won him in a pitch game, didn’t yuh? Yes,
yuh did. Anyway, he wasn’t worth more than a dollar and six-bits, but
he sure saved me a lot of misery. Do yuh know if Palo Huston is still
in town?”

“Naw, he left two hours ago.”

“You seen him pull out?”

“Y’betcha. He drifted just a li’l after Bonn drove away with a wagonful
of folks for the Cross-Anchor. Say, do yuh think he bushwhacked yuh,
Dusty?”

“I dunno.”

Dusty shook his head.

“I got a glimpse of somebody in the rocks and I sure whanged loose at
’em, but I was goin’ like a bat out of ---- and never had much time.
Anyway, whoever it was, they spinned another bullet after me.”

Weary smoked thoughtfully for a while.

“Jack Bonn asked where you were, and I told him yuh had gone to the
Cross-Anchor. Lemme see----”

Weary rubbed his chin.

“No, Palo wasn’t there when I told Bonn. Stella comes out of the store
’bout that time, and then Palo drifts up t’ us.

“I’ve gotta set on my gun-hand when he’s around; so I pulled out and
left ’em talkin’. Stella went back to the store, if I ’member right.
Them strangers was talkin’ to Palo about the game country back of the
Box S. ’Pears that they’re out here to hunt.

“I was in Sapphire’s place for a while, and when I comes out I seen Bonn
drivin’ out of town, and Palo was over to the hitch-rack cinchin’ up his
saddle. He pulled out right away, but I didn’t pay no ’tention which way
he went.”

“Notice ’f he had a rifle?”

Weary shook his head.

“Nope. Him and old Snag mostly always do pack rifles, though.”

“Might ’a’ been him,” mused Dusty, “but I won’t never know ’f it was. I
comes almighty close t’ selectin’ m’ harp, I’m tellin’ yuh!”

Dusty reached into his pocket for cigaret papers and drew out the
handful of stuff which he had picked up at the scene of the battle at
the Cross-Anchor. Among the stuff was a small, red note-book, with a
dog-eared cover. It showed much wear and was discolored from weather.

Dusty thumbed the covers.

“That never fell out of my pockets,” he declared. “I betcha I was so
flustrated that I thought it belonged t’ me. Hm-m-m!”

He opened the note-book at random and studied it through half-closed
eyes. He slowly turned the pages, which were bent and mutilated at the
edges, while he frowned deeply.

“What is it, Dusty?” Weary noticed Dusty’s interest and grew curious.

“I don’t _sabe_ it,” grunted Dusty. “Feller who wrote it used a
pencil and it ain’t all readable. Listen t’ this and see if it means
anythin’. Here’s the word, ‘Feeders,’ and after it is a dash, and the
word, ‘sheep.’ Then it says, ‘Feed poor’ and after that, ‘Dangerous
to continue now.’

“The next line says, ‘Stock in good shape,’ and after that it says,
‘Time ripe to buy.’

“This next line is kinda blurred, but it says, ‘No stock available,’ and
under that it says--” Dusty squinted closely--“To be used, if there is
any concerted movement among cattlemen.”

“What does she mean?” queried Weary. “Danged ’f I know. Looks like one
of them code things that yuh use in telegraphin’, when yuh don’t want
nobody t’ know what yuh mean.”

“Who owned it, Dusty?”

Dusty shook his head and told Weary of his fight with Jack Bonn and
the younger Ramsey. Weary gasped with delight and forgot all about the
note-book in his joy over Dusty’s description of Bonn’s downfall.

“And yuh popped Mister Smart Feller right on the chin, eh? Man, I hail
yuh with delight! And Jack Bonn throwed himself! Mamma mine, them
thoughts are as tinklin’ cymbals to m’ ears, I tell yuh. Dusty Corbett,
may shadders never cross yore path! Whoo-o-o-ee-e-e!”

“And one of them lost this here note-book,” stated Dusty, tapping the
book on the edge of the table.

Weary took the book and looked it over. “The ---- thing’s as old as the
hills, Dusty. Mebbe that was a code book that Robinson Crusoe used on
Friday.”

“Prob’ly,” grinned Dusty, replacing the note-book in his pocket and
getting to his feet. “I’ve gotta put up m’ horse. Got the best darned
bronc’ that ever rattled a hock, Weary. Fastest thing yuh ever seen
and----”

“Since my horse is dead,” interrupted Weary, “that horse-killin’ sure
allowed a lot of crow-baits t’ claim certain honors. Didja ever see my
bronc’ run?”

“Never did,” declared Dusty.

“I’m glad of that,” grinned Weary. “It sure gives me a fine chance t’
lie and nobody can disprove it. Oncet upon a time I ran into a bunch
of antelope----”

But Dusty grabbed his hat and made a hurried exit, while Weary grinned
widely and manufactured another smoke.

Dusty stabled his horse and studied the note-book again. He could not
make out the reasons for such a code, and he did not know which one of
the men had lost it. On the inside of the back cover was a stationer’s
mark, which showed that the book had been purchased from a book store
in Searchlight, Wyoming.

Dusty wandered down to the little telegraph office and leaned idly on
the little counter, watching the operator refilling some battery jars.
The man was undersized, unshaven and had gimlet-like eyes. He glanced
at Dusty, who grinned and said--

“Pardner, I’m the sheriff of this county and I’m kinda startin’ t’ ask a
question.”

The man replaced the full jar into a cupboard-like contrivance and wiped
his hands on a piece of waste. He came over to Dusty and nodded for him
to continue.

“Know Jack Bonn?” asked Dusty.

The man took this under advisement, but finally shook his head.

“Not that I know of.”

“How long yuh been here?”

“About a year and a half.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Dusty. “Yuh don’t send a lot of messages, do yuh?”

“Not so many. Why?”

“I was just thinkin’ you’d remember this feller, ’f he sent many,
thasall.”

The operator nodded and spat dryly. He was not much given to
conversation.

Dusty reached for a telegraph blank and wrote out the following message:

    SHERIFF’S OFFICE
    SEARCHLIGHT WYOMING

    WANT INFORMATION REGARDING JACK BONN WHO USED TO LIVE NEAR YOUR TOWN
    WIRE COLLECT

    (SIGNED) CORBETT SHERIFF

The operator counted the words, accepted payment and shoved the telegram
over on his desk. Dusty grinned and leaned across the counter and tapped
the operator on the arm.

“Send it right away, will yuh, pardner?”

“Certainly; in a few minutes.”

The operator turned back to his battery-cabinet, but Dusty was not to be
denied.

“I want t’ hear it rattle,” insisted Dusty. “Go ahead, will yuh,
please?”

The man appeared peeved for a moment, but then grinned.

“How could you tell whether I sent your message or not?”

“Pardner--” Dusty leaned far across the table and shifted his belt
as he leaned--“Pardner, you send that wire right now, and I’ll make
you a little bet that I’ll call yuh almighty quick, if yuh make one
mistake.”

The operator studied Dusty’s serious face for a moment, turned and sat
down at his desk. His hand trembled slightly, as he opened his key. Once
he turned his head slightly and caught a reflection of Dusty’s face in
the office mirror, as he ticked out the message. Dusty was watching him
closely and moving his lips slightly.

As the operator closed his key, Dusty turned and walked out of the door.
On the outside he leaned against the building and grinned widely. He
hadn’t the slightest idea of what the operator had sent, but he was very
sure that the operator had not made any mistakes.

Dusty did not know whether Jack Bonn had ever lived in Searchlight, but
he was taking a chance. He had no reason for distrusting the telegraph
operator, except that Dusty was beginning to distrust everybody. After
two attempts on his life he was beginning to look seriously upon his
position.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was about noon the next day, when Jack Bonn, Stella and the two
Ramseys rode into Calumet. Bonn was leading a pack-horse, and on this
pack-horse was roped the body of a man.

Weary was standing in the doorway of the office and saw the cavalcade
ride up to the front of the Calumet general store. He called to Dusty,
who was studying how to make out an arrest warrant.

“Somebody has been got,” stated Weary ungrammatically, pointing toward
the store. “Jack Bonn is bringin’ in somebody.”

Dusty scowled and followed Weary up to the store. Several men had
gathered around, questioning, wondering, when Dusty came up and looked
at the dead man.

It was Palo Huston. Dusty did not say anything, but waited for Bonn
to speak. Stella dismounted and went into the store, and Dusty’s eyes
followed her.

“He’s been shot,” stated Bonn indifferently. “We were coming over
the Bald Butte trail and found him up near the highest point. He was
pretty bad, y’understand, and we was goin’ to take him back to the
Cross-Anchor.

“I got him into my saddle and we started back, but this danged bronc’
started buckin’ on that high trail. Yuh know how dangerous that trail
is; so I seen there wasn’t no chance to stop him from buckin’, and got
off real fast.

“I figured that the bronc’ was goin’ off the trail, but he pitched Palo
off and whirled up the hill, where we caught him. Palo went plumb to the
bottom, and was as dead as a door-knob when we got to him; so we brought
him to town.”

“Who do yuh reckon killed him--shot him?” asked one of the bystanders.

“Remains to be seen,” stated Bonn, looking knowingly at Dusty, who had
said nothing.

Dusty realized that it had been Palo who tried to kill him on the Bald
Butte trail, and that he, Dusty, had shot better than he knew. But he
was not going to admit that he had planted the bullet in Palo Huston.
He also realized that every one at the Cross-Anchor knew that he had
been over the Bald Butte trail the afternoon before.

“What do yuh think of it?” asked Bonn.

“Me?” Dusty looked up and grinned at Bonn. “I think yuh was careless,
Bonn. That wasn’t no way to treat a wounded man, if yuh asks me.”

“Aw, ----!” snorted Bonn. “My part of it was an accident.”

“Yeah? Well, mebbe the shootin’ was an accident, too. Did yuh ever think
of that?”

“Mebbe,” sarcastically, “somebody was shootin’ at a coyote and hit
Palo.”

“Chances are they was,” nodded Dusty, and turned to Weary. “Will you
take the body down to Doc Bevin, Weary? He’ll want to look it over.”

Weary took the lead-rope and started down the street, followed by
several interested spectators, whose morbid curiosity was not satisfied.
Bonn and the Ramseys dismounted and went into the store. Young Ramsey
did not even look at Dusty, who leaned against a porch-post and seemed
deep in thought.

Stella came out of the store in a few minutes and started past Dusty,
but he stepped in front of her. She looked at him coldly, indifferently,
but he made up a face at her and she was forced to smile.

“Stell, what do yuh know about this Palo Huston deal?”

“Didn’t Bonn tell you all about it, Mr. Corbett?”

“He did, Miss Magruder,” said Dusty seriously, “but I want to know a
few things. Honest t’ ----, Stell’, I want to find out a few things.
Was Palo Huston hurt bad when yuh found him?”

“Yes, he was unconscious.”

“Uh-huh. And then what?”

“He talked like a crazy man. I wanted to bring him to a doctor, but Bonn
insisted on taking him to the ranch. I didn’t hear all that Palo Huston
was saying, but he kept raving about sticky ropes.”

“Thasso?” Dusty grew interested. “Sticky Ropes, eh? And Jack Bonn’s
horse bucked real hard, eh?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Stella. “I was at the rear end of the bunch,
and you know how narrow the trail is? I heard Bonn yell and I saw him
jump off on the upper side. There was sort of a mix-up and I heard one
of the Ramseys yell something about Bonn being lucky. I got off my
horse and climbed around there. Palo Huston had fallen off the horse
and was way down in a thicket at the bottom of the cañon. It took us
an hour to get the body back to the trail.”

“I’m sure much obliged to yuh, Stell,” said Dusty.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Corbett.” Stella walked past him and down the
street. Dusty looked after her and grinned widely.

“Oh, Stell!” he called.

She stopped and turned.

“Thank yuh for tellin’ yore Maw that I wouldn’t stay for supper
yesterday.”

Without a word Stella turned and went down the street. She wanted to
get mad at Dusty Corbett, but it seemed almost impossible. Bonn and the
two Ramseys came out of the store and started across toward Smalley’s
saloon, but Bonn noticed Dusty and came slowly back to him.

“Corbett, I didn’t want to say much before the crowd, but down where
we found Palo Huston we also found that Circle J bronc’ that belonged
to Weary Willis. It had been shot through the head. Hadn’t been dead
more than a day or so, ’cause the coyotes hadn’t got it yet.”

“What do yuh think?” queried Dusty seriously.

Bonn looked closely at Dusty, as he said--

“You rode that bronc’ to the Cross-Anchor yesterday.”

“Uh-huh. And then what?”

Bonn’s eyebrows went up a trifle and he turned on his heel, as he said--

“Well, it’s none of my business.”

“No,” shot back Dusty coldly. “I don’t think it is!”

Dusty walked down to the doctor’s office. He was in a quandary just how
to explain the killing of Palo Huston. He had shot at a flash of colored
cloth, while riding at break-neck speed, and it was hard to believe that
he had hit his target.

And Stella had said that Palo had raved about the Sticky Ropes. Was
Palo one of them, or did he know that one of them had shot him? Weary
met Dusty at the door of the doctor’s office.

“Bullet through his shoulder, broken neck and a busted skull,”
enumerated Weary.

“Well, I reckon that’s plumb sufficient,” observed Dusty, and went on
into the room where Doctor Bevin was showing some of the bystanders the
bullet hole. The doctor looked up and nodded at Dusty.

“Would the bullet have killed him, Doc?” asked Dusty.

“Not necessarily, Corbett--not with medical assistance. The bullet was
through the left shoulder, high above the heart, and was not necessarily
fatal.”

“Been shot quite a while?”

“That’s difficult to say. Possibly was shot yesterday. He had lost
considerable blood. Still, I feel that I could have saved him.”

“Then yuh think that the fall killed him, Doc?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Hold an inquest?”

“Yes, I suppose we’ll have to. Won’t do any good, but the law requires
it, Corbett. I dug out the bullet.”

The doctor turned and picked up a bullet, which he handed to Dusty.

“Perhaps you had better keep that as evidence.”

Dusty studied the bullet closely, nodded and put it in his pocket.

“You better tell Bonn and the rest of his party to be at the inquest
tomorrow afternoon, Corbett,” stated the doctor, and Dusty nodded slowly
as he turned and went out of the door. Weary fell into step with him and
they went to the office.

“Well,” said Weary as they sat down inside the office, “you shot pretty
danged straight, Dusty. That ---- son-of-a-rooster won’t bother anybody
again.”

Dusty took the bullet from his pocket and rolled it across the desk to
Weary, who picked it up and looked closely at it.

“Well, say, this is a .38!” grunted Weary. “You don’t shoot .38’s in
your .45, do yuh, Dusty?”

Dusty shook his head.

“Can’t be did, Weary. Just when I was congratulatin’ m’self on good
shootin’, somebody steps in and ruins m’ good opinion.”

“Who shoots a .38?” asked Weary.

“Prob’ly a dozen men around here. It’s easier to ask who shoots a .45,
or a .44. ’Pears that the .38 is a popular caliber in this range; which
makes it danged hard to tell who fired that shot.”

“Too danged bad that Palo never lived to talk,” observed Weary.

Dusty got to his feet and walked to the door, where he leaned against
the wall and cogitated deeply. In front of the store, Bonn was packing
the horse. Stella was already mounted and talking to the younger Ramsey,
while the elder Ramsey watched Bonn.

Dusty surged away from the door and walked up to them. Bonn looked up
from his packing and scowled at Dusty.

“Inquest t’morrow afternoon,” stated Dusty, “and all of you folks will
have to be here.”

“----!” swore Bonn under his breath. “We’re leavin’ early in the mornin’
for the hills.”

“I reckon you’ll have to put it off, Bonn.” Bonn yanked a rope tight and
tied it off. “You reckon so, do yuh?” savagely. “Suppose we don’t?”

“Then I’ll have t’ come after yuh,” said Dusty softly. “Suit yoreself,
Bonn.”

“Blamed nuisance,” said young Ramsey. “Too bad we found the body.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Dusty. “Too danged bad.”

Bonn finished his work and swung on to his horse, leading the way out
of town. Stella looked closely at Dusty, turned her horse and rode
away beside young Ramsey, engaging him in animated conversation. But
Dusty only grinned. For some reason he felt very well satisfied with
himself.

He walked down to the telegraph office and leaned in across the counter.
The operator was reading a paper-backed novel but looked up and smiled
as he reached over on his desk and picked up a telegram, which he handed
to Dusty.

“Just came a few minutes ago,” he stated.

Dusty glanced at it and nodded his thanks, as he started away, but
turned.

“What’s the charges on this, pardner?”

The operator hesitated for a second.

“It was paid at Searchlight.”

Dusty went outside and looked at the telegram again. It read:

    SHERIFF CORBETT
    CALUMET MONT

    JACK BONN WELL KNOWN HERE AND
    GOOD REPUTATION WORKED IN CATTLE
    HERE SEVERAL YEARS WELL LIKED BY
    EVERY ONE AND CONSIDERED GOOD
    CATTLE MAN.

    (SIGNED) WILSON SHERIFF

Dusty scratched his head thoughtfully, folded up the telegram and put it
in his pocket.

“Well liked by everybody, eh?” he grunted. “Good reputation. My ----,
what kind of a town is that Searchlight? I’ll betcha this here Wilson
kissed Jack Bonn good-by when he left. Hm-m-m!”

Dusty shook his head and started back toward the office. He hadn’t the
slightest idea what he was going to do; where to begin. It looked like
a blank wall.

The range country was well represented at the inquest the next day.
Jack Bonn testified to practically the same story as he told the day
before. The two Ramseys corroborated Bonn’s testimony, while Stella
Magruder’s story was the same, except that it lacked details.

Dusty watched Bonn closely during the testimony. He knew that Bonn was
going to remind the jury that Dusty Corbett had been the last man over
the Bald Butte trail, and that Weary Willis’ horse was at the bottom of
Bald Butte cañon; so Dusty took the stand, following Stella, and told
of what had occurred on the trail.

“I just shot at a flash of color,” stated Dusty. “I wasn’t sure it was a
man, ’cause I was travelin’ fast.”

“Why should Palo Huston try to kill you?” questioned Dr. Bevin.

“I dunno.” Dusty shook his head. “Unless Palo was one of the Sticky Rope
gang. Yuh see, I’ve declared open season on them, and mebbe they realize
that I mean business.”

“Hm-m-m!” Dr. Bevin seemed to have difficulty clearing his throat.

“Have you--er--any evidence that would--uh--connect Palo Huston with the
so-called Sticky Rope gang?”

Dusty shook his head and looked at Stella.

“Miss Magruder, would yuh mind tellin’ us what Palo Huston said when yuh
found him?”

“Not at all, Mr. Corbett,” she replied seriously, which drew a grin from
the audience.

“He was plumb out of his head,” remarked Bonn.

“Is yore name Miss Magruder?” queried Dusty, and Bonn flushed hotly.

“I did not hear all that he said,” stated Stella, “but I did hear him
say, ‘Git even with Sticky Ropes.’”

“And what else did he say?” asked Dusty.

Stella thought for a moment and shook her head.

“He was just mumbling a lot of foolish words, and all at once, while
Jack Bonn and Mr. Ramsey were helping him on the horse, he bleated
like a sheep.”

The audience laughed.

“In just what way, Miss Magruder?” queried the doctor.

“Baa-a-a-a,” bleated Stella, and every one, except Dusty, laughed.

“It appears,” stated the doctor, “that Palo Huston was shot by a party
unknown, and later came to his death from an accidental fall. The bullet
was not necessarily fatal.”

“The sheriff admits shootin’ at him,” emphasized Bonn.

“The sheriff,” said Dusty slowly, “shoots a .45. Palo Huston was shot
with a .38.”

There was a shuffling of feet in the audience. A great percentage of
them were carrying .38 caliber guns.

“How long you been wearing a .45?” asked Bonn.

“Ever since I left the Cross-Anchor,” replied Dusty.

Without leaving their seats, the jury adopted the findings of Dr. Bevin
and the inquest was over. As far as Calumet was concerned the death of
Palo Huston was a closed incident. Why bother over the demise of a man
of his caliber? In the words of the majority of the cattlemen, “He got
what was comin’ to him.”

There was one man at the rear of the crowd, who had listened to the
evidence, and who was one of the first to leave the room. He was an
undersized, weazened man, with the thin face of a ferret, scraggly
hair, which hung down over his forehead, almost concealing a pair of
ape-like eyes. When he opened his mouth it disclosed a few ill-shaped,
yellow teeth, which grew in such a way that it appeared that the man
was holding something in his mouth.

He was dressed in a coarse, black shirt, overalls and well-worn
bat-winged chaps, and his sombrero was a shapeless thing of black felt,
with a chin-strap of whangleather, greasy from much handling. His thin
waist was circled with a wide cartridge belt, which hung low over his
right hip, and his tied-down holster sagged from the weight of a heavy
single-action Colt pistol.

He had been drinking heavily and seemed uncertain in his walk, but he
missed none of the testimony. Outside the place, he went slowly up the
sidewalk and sat down in front of the Eagle River stage office. The
rest of the crowd separated, going their respective ways; most of them
heading for Sapphire Smalley’s place.

Bonn, the Ramseys and Stella Magruder crossed the street to the
hitch-rack, where their horses were tied. Dusty stood in the doorway of
the doctor’s office and watched them. He wanted to talk with Stella, but
did not want to be snubbed in front of Bonn and the Ramseys.

Weary came up to him and motioned up the street.

“Snag Shirey is drunk and settin’ alone up there.”

Dusty glanced up the street and nodded, as he recognized the former
employer of Palo Huston.

“Danged old buzzard,” grunted Weary. “Mebbe he’s tryin’ to feel sorry
for himself. He ain’t spoke but fifteen words since he hit Calumet.”

“Fifteen?” queried Dusty.

“Uh-huh. Asked for whisky fifteen times!”

Weary went on into the office. Dusty swung away from the door and went
up the sidewalk toward Snag Shirey. He knew that Shirey was drunk; knew
that he was an ignorant, cold-blooded fiend when sober--and whisky does
not soften men of that nature.

Shirey squinted up at him, as Dusty sat down beside him. Across the
street, Stella was talking with young Ramsey, while Bonn and the other
Ramsey were coming across the street toward the store. They looked
sharply at Dusty and Snag Shirey, but neither of them spoke.

“How’s things with yuh, Snag?” asked Dusty.

“Awright.”

“Lotsa stock running on the upper ranges?” asked Dusty.

Shirey shuffled his feet in the dust, but did not reply.

“Understand that Bonn’s takin’ some fellers in to stay at yore place to
hunt deer.”

“Thasso?” Shirey spat dryly and did not appear interested.

“I wonder who shot Palo Huston.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t talk much, do yuh,” observed Dusty, grinning. “Palo Huston
ran out of talk and bleated like a sheep. I wonder if you’d do that,
’f I asked yuh a few more questions.”

“Whatcha mean?” Shirey squinted closely at Dusty, and appeared
interested.

“Like a sheep,” explained Dusty. “Baa-a-a-a. Just like that. Whatcha
suppose made Palo bleat thataway?”

Shirey looked away from Dusty and appeared to consider the question.
Bonn and the elder Ramsey came out of the store and down the sidewalk,
stepping down just beyond Shirey, who looked up at Bonn.

“We’ll likely show up at your place t’morrow, Shirey,” stated Bonn.

“Awright,” nodded Shirey, and the two men went on.

Bonn looked keenly at Dusty, who grinned widely, and as they got about
half-way across the street, Dusty cupped his hands around his mouth and
bleated like a sheep--

“Baa-a-a-a-a!”

Bonn whirled on his heel, but Dusty had dropped his hands and appeared
to be in close conversation with Snag Shirey. Bonn turned back quickly
and went on toward the hitch-rack.

Shirey was looking closely at Dusty, and for a moment a ghost of a
smile seemed to flash across his homely face; a slight upward lift of
the thin lips, which disclosed a yellowed tooth, like the fang of a
wolf. Then Snag Shirey got to his feet and went across to the saloon,
weaving a trifle in his walk. When he reached the sidewalk he turned
his head and looked back at Dusty but went on into the saloon.

Bonn and his party mounted and rode out of town; none of them paying
any attention to Dusty, who leaned against a porch-post and rolled a
cigaret. For some reason he was not jealous of young Ramsey, who was
riding very close to Stella. He went back to his office and found
Weary reading a stack of old reward notices, which he had dug up in
a closet.

Dusty told him of sending the message to Searchlight, and handed Weary
the reply from Sheriff Wilson. Weary read it slowly and handed it back
to Dusty.

“What do yuh think?” queried Dusty seriously.

“I think,” said Weary slowly, “that Searchlight folks must be a trustin’
bunch of pelicans and fond of knick-knacks.”

“I just been wonderin’,” reflected Dusty, “kinda wonderin’.”

“Thinkin’?” queried Weary.

“This job requires thinkin’, Weary.”

“Yeah,” sarcastically, “and if yuh stop to think--somebody’s goin’ to
shoot yuh.”

“You want to quit the job, Weary?”

“No, I don’t want to quit, but I don’t want yuh to ask me to do any
thinkin’, Dusty. I ain’t no _Sherlock Holmes_, which goes around
deductin’ about things. I’m just a deputy--pure and simple.”

“That last part sure fits yuh, cowboy. I’ll do the thinkin’ for both of
us.”

“All right. But you’ll excuse me if I do my own runnin’ and dodgin’,
Dusty. Jist thinkin’ of these Sticky Ropes has got me doin’ a flip-flop
every time anybody even spits behind me; and if you’ll do my thinkin’
for me, mebbe I can git my nerves into shape agin.”

Dusty grinned widely. In spite of Weary’s admitted fear of the Sticky
Ropes Dusty knew that his lanky deputy, in the parlance of the range,
was just plumb loaded with guts. Few brave men admit bravery; few
cowards will admit fear.

Weary continued to look over the bunch of old reward notices, and Dusty
studied one of them, as he rolled a smoke. It was a small reward for a
cattle rustler, and was signed by Sheriff Claypool, of Carson County.
The reward offer was of recent date.

Dusty got to his feet and walked over to the opposite wall, where
several old maps were hanging. He studied the map closely for a few
moments, grinned softly and went back to the table, where he folded
up the reward notice and put it in his pocket. Weary glanced up at
him.

“Yuh never can tell what you’ll find in these old notices.”

“That’s right,” nodded Dusty. “Yuh never can tell.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was two uneventful days later that Dusty decided to ride out to the
Cross-Anchor ranch. As an excuse, he told Weary that the Mission-Cross
gray needed riding out, but Weary grinned widely and watched him saddle.

The gray humped and flinched under the weight of the saddle and the
pull of the cinching, but did not offer to buck. It seemed to realize
that its last bucking effort had brought on disaster.

Dusty rode slowly out of town, but soon shook the gray into a swift
gallop along the dusty road. He noted the length of stride, the easy
swing, which carried them along at a mile-eating pace, without effort.
Suddenly he leaned forward and spoke to the gray, which snorted, as if
in reply, and began to fairly spurn the road.

Dusty grinned widely and patted the gray’s neck.

“Gray bronc’, it takes blood to do that stuff. Yore mammy or daddy
wasn’t no cow-pony. Yore a ghost horse, that’s what yuh are! Take it
easy!”

Dusty settled back in his saddle and the gray eased back to the swinging
gallop again. There was no lost motion, no jerking; it was like the
slowing down of a well-oiled engine.

“All horse,” chuckled Dusty. “Runnin’ horse. We may not be able to catch
the Sticky Ropes, but they’ll never catch us, y’betcha.”

Scott Magruder was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house when Dusty
rode up, and he squinted closely at the gray horse. Dusty swung down
and came up on the steps, before either of them said a word.

“I reckon,” observed Scott, “that I gave away somethin’.”

“Yuh sure did,” grinned Dusty. “How’s everythin’, Scott?”

“All right,” nodded Scott. “Least I reckon she is. Was the last time I
seen her.”

Dusty grinned and rolled a smoke.

“Did Bonn and his friends get away, Scott?”

“Yeah, they’re some’ers out in the mountains back of Shirey’s place,
I reckon. I’ve listened to deer huntin’ stories until I’m all fed up
on venison.”

“What do yuh know about the Ramseys?” queried Dusty.

“Not much. I know they had the nerve to offer to buy the Cross-Anchor
for about half what it’s worth.”

“Thasso? Didn’t want it very bad, did they?”

“Not half-bad,” grinned Scott. “If my ankle had been real good, I reckon
I’d ’a’ kicked him.”

“Where’s Ma Magruder today?”

“Takin’ a nap. Now ask me where Stell is, Dusty. She went ridin’ a while
ago--hour or so. I kinda think she’s stuck on that young Ramsey.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t seem to faze you any.”

“Stell is old enough to know what she wants.”

“Like ---- she is!” snorted Scott. “No woman ever gets old enough to
know what she wants.”

“Well,” grinned Dusty, “yuh don’t need to get mad at me, Scott. I never
asked Stell to marry me.”

Scott grunted indignantly and filled his pipe. As a matrimonial agent
he found himself a failure. He had hoped for a rise out of Dusty when
he mentioned young Ramsey, but the rise did not materialize; and Scott
was really just a bit worried for fear that Stella might want to marry
young Ramsey.

Suddenly Dusty’s attention was attracted by a horse and rider, which
came swiftly down the point of a low hog-back ridge and into the dusty
road, where they proceeded to leave a high-flung cloud of dust in their
wake, as they came swiftly toward the Cross-Anchor.

“Somebody’s in a hurry,” remarked Dusty.

Scott got up from his chair and grasped the railing of the porch. A
moment later the rider swerved through the open gate and galloped
toward the house.

“It’s Stell!” grunted Scott. “What’s she racin’----”

The girl jerked her mount to a stop almost against the porch, and fairly
fell out of the saddle. Dusty was off the porch and down to her as she
hit the ground.

“Rustlers!” she panted, grasping him by the arm. “Look!”

She turned and pointed at her horse, which was blowing heavily. Across
the hip of her sorrel was a jagged, bloody furrow, where a bullet had
plowed just through the skin.

“They--they took a whack at me!” she blurted. “Several whacks, but
that’s the only one to hurt anything.”

“Where were they?” asked Dusty.

“On that big flat across Cedar Cañon,” explained Stella. “I came up one
of the draws and ran into a bunch of cattle, which were being driven
pretty fast. They were cleaning the whole range, as far as I could see.
I rode out of the draw and saw a lot more cattle, all traveling the
same way. When I rode further out to see what was going on, they began
to shoot at me; so I went back down the draw, and I went fast, too.”

“Didja see any of the rustlers?” asked Dusty.

“I never stopped to look,” declared Stella.

Dusty turned to Scott.

“Got a rifle, Scott?”

“Y’betcha. Shells and all in there by the fire-place.”

Dusty secured the gun and swung on to his horse. Stella mounted and
spurred in beside him.

“You ain’t goin’ along, Stell,” stated Dusty.

“Is that so? Let me tell you this much, Dusty Corbett: I’m going, if I
have to ride alone.”

“What did I tell yuh?” yelled Scott. “They never get old enough to have
any sense.”

Dusty’s reply was to jerk his sombrero lower over his eyes and speak to
the tall gray horse. Out of the gate they pounded, with Stella urging
her horse to keep up with the gray.

“Where’s Shorty Miles?” yelled Dusty over his shoulder.

“Went to Calumet this mornin’,” answered Stella.

Dusty held the gray to a swinging gallop and let Stella pass him and
lead the way up through the broken hills. There were no cattle in
sight as they pounded along the side of a hill and headed for Cedar
Cañon, about two miles away.

They rode cautiously down into the heavily wooded cañon and out the
other side, without seeing any cattle nor any sight of the rustlers.
There were no cattle in sight on the big flat, but Dusty knew that it
would be impossible to run the cattle for any great length of time,
and that they were not far behind the drive.

Beyond the big flat was another succession of breaks, and as they topped
the first rise, Dusty saw a man ahead of them. Dusty had stopped his
horse on the top of the rise, but Stella did not ride to the crest until
the man had turned and disappeared in the opposite direction.

“Rear guard,” pronounced Dusty, shifting the rifle to a handy position.
“I’ll rearguard him, if he thinks he can block me from findin’ out
things. You better stay out of this, Stell.”

“Since when did you get the right to tell me what to do?” demanded
Stella, riding in close to him.

“Aw, shucks!” groaned Dusty. “I don’t want yuh to get hurt. Bustin’ into
rustlers ain’t no place for a lady.”

Dusty’s gray had swung into a faster gallop, and now Dusty spoke
softly and leaned forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw with
satisfaction that Stella and her horse were falling further and
further behind. If he was headed for trouble he had decided to get
into it in time to give her plenty of warning.

At break-neck speed he raced over the broken country, with the gray
running like a deer. Dusty stood high in his stirrups, swinging the
Winchester in one hand. He had no plan of attack; no idea of what he
was going to do beyond the fact that he was going to overtake the
stolen herd. Suddenly he saw a steer backed defiantly against a tall
granite outcropping, tired out and belligerent from the swift drive.
The herd must be close now.

He glanced back. Stella was about two hundred yards behind him now; her
horse tiring fast after its former run from the rustlers’ fire.

Over the crest of a ridge went Dusty and beyond him was a long slope
covered with sage and mesquite, broken here and there with clumps of
stunted pine. At the bottom of this slope he could see part of the
herd, which was just starting up the other side.

A bullet whistled past him, as he jerked up his horse, and he saw a
dismounted man running through the mesquite, as if to get behind him.
Dusty shot at him, but his aim was too hurried.

Another shot came from almost behind him and he whirled in his saddle
just in time to feel a crashing blow, which fairly lifted him out of
his saddle. As he fell, men seemed to rise up from among the mesquite
between him and the crest of the last hill, and into them came Stella,
trying to stop her winded horse.

It was after sundown when Dusty Corbett regained consciousness. The
awakening was painful in the extreme. His head pained him greatly and
he peered out of eyes which seemed mere slits, so badly were they
swollen.

For some little time he did not move. He was still dazed, and the events
of the day were still a hazy dream. He tried to lift an arm, but seemed
paralyzed. A rope was cutting into the flesh of his chest. He seemed to
be half-hanging to a small tree, and investigation disclosed the fact
that there was a rope under his arms, which half-suspended him.

He dug his heels into the dirt and loosened the rope sufficiently for
him to turn facing the tree. His hands and arms gradually became part
of his anatomy and he was able to untie the rope. There was another
rope around his neck, and as he removed this his hands became sticky.
It was difficult for him to see clearly, but he knew that this was
the trade-mark of the Sticky Rope gang.

He felt of his head, which was stiff with dried blood, and his exploring
fingers encountered a wide gash in his forehead about two inches above
the bridge of his nose.

“Hit me plumb between the eyes!” he told himself dazedly and sat down
on the ground to think it over. His head throbbed and extreme nausea
overcame him, but he fought against it.

“They thought I was dead,” he told himself. “Thought that bullet went
plumb through, and they hung the rope on me.”

His holster was empty. He got to his feet and tried to investigate his
surroundings, but his swollen eyes precluded any chance of seeing more
than a few yards.

“Well,” he decided, “they never packed me over the divide, that’s a
cinch; so all I’ve got to do is to go down hill to strike the valley.”

He started down the slope, stumbling along drunkenly, when he suddenly
remembered that Stella had been with him. His shocked brain worked
slowly, but he remembered that she had been quite a distance behind
him. Had she heard the shots in time to swerve back to safety?

He remembered now that he had ridden pell mell into an ambush. The rear
guard had seen to that. Dusty cursed softly.

“No wonder they couldn’t shoot out m’ brains,” he groaned bitterly. “I
never had none.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

There was no use searching for Stella, until he found out whether or
not she had gone back to the Cross-Anchor; so he started on down the
hill again.

It was dark when Dusty staggered into the ranch-house of the
Cross-Anchor. Scott Magruder met him at the door and helped him to a
chair, while Mrs. Magruder and Shorty Miles crowded in close and
begged for an explanation. Stella had not come home, but Dusty’s gray
bronco had drifted into the corral gate about fifteen minutes ahead
of Dusty.

“My ----, yo’re a horrible sight!” exclaimed Shorty. “By all rights, yuh
ought to be dead.”

Ma Magruder, putting her own worries aside, bathed Dusty’s head with
warm water and soft towels, while Scott, who was also practical, fed
Dusty regular doses of whisky. In broken sentences Dusty told of the
ambush and of how the rustlers had thought him dead; but he had not
the slightest idea what had become of Stella.

“But they won’t harm her,” insisted Scott. “In this day and age yuh
can’t steal wimmin’. Why would they kidnap her? ----! Why, the whole
country would rise up agin ’em for a thing like that.”

“The country,” said Dusty bitterly, “ain’t done a dang thing to shake
’em loose, Scott.”

“I know; but why would they steal a girl? It ain’t noways reasonable,
Dusty.”

“Sure it ain’t,” Dusty shook his gore-stained head and blinked
painfully.

“I don’t reckon they had any idea of stealin’ Stella, Scott. I remember
that the rear guard didn’t see her, ’cause she was down the hill a ways
when he rode away. She was behind me when they started shootin’, and I
figure that she rode plumb into ’em before she could stop.”

“And they had to capture her?” exclaimed Mrs. Magruder. “Do you think
she knew them, Dusty?”

Dusty nodded. “I reckon so, Ma. They had to steal her.”

“Then they won’t do her any harm,” Scott reassured them. “They’ll hold
her until they have their getaway framed, and then turn her loose.”

“Yeah?” Dusty was unconvinced.

“Don’t you believe that, Dusty?” asked Ma Magruder nervously.

“They was Sticky Ropes, Ma--and it’s just a question as to whether
they’re ready to leave or not. One girl ain’t never goin’ to put the
run on that gang.”

“What can we do?” demanded Shorty. “Gotta do somethin’.”

“Y’betcha,” agreed Dusty. “And we don’t want everybody in the country in
on it, Shorty. Do you know where yuh can get hold of Jack Bonn? He knows
that country back in there. Old Snag knows it, too. Do yuh think yuh can
locate ’em?”

“Well, I sure can try,” replied Shorty. “They said they was goin’ to
Shirey’s place.”

“Pull out right now,” ordered Dusty. “Get Bonn and old Snag, if yuh can,
and bring ’em down here to the ranch. We’ll work out from here; _sabe_?”

“How about the Ramseys?”

“Let ’em come along if they want to, Shorty. I don’t reckon they’ll be
worth anythin’ to us; but bring ’em along.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mrs. Magruder.

“Goin’ t’ town,” declared Dusty. “I’ve gotta get Weary and some
artillery.”

“You ain’t in no shape to ride,” objected Scott. “Man, you’ve got a
busted head and yore eyes look like Easter-eggs.”

“But m’ heart is in the right place,” grinned Dusty, peering around
for his hat. “I may not be handsome, but I sure have got a lovin’
disposition. S’long.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

The tall gray was tied to the corral fence, none the worse for the
encounter with the rustlers. As Dusty swung into the saddle he saw
Shorty Miles saddling up down at the barn. They were losing no time.
Dusty whirled the gray out through the wide gate and straightened out
on the long, dim road toward Calumet.

“Need a li’l speed, bronc’,” stated Dusty, and the tall gray snorted its
answer, as the gray ribbon of road seemed to reel in beneath them.

It was just before midnight when Dusty and Weary, leading a packed
horse, rode away from Calumet. Dusty had come secretly into town, found
Weary at the office, and now they were leaving without mentioning the
fact to a single soul. Both of them were armed with rifles and in the
pack was food enough for a week.

“We’re goin’ to hit the Cross-Anchor kinda early,” remarked Weary as
they left the road for the Bald Butte trail.

“Not so early,” replied Dusty, and not another word was spoken until
they struck the bottom of the buttes and Dusty drew rein.

“Weary, there’s an old Injun trail that circles the bottom of these
hills and comes in through the breaks at the top of Cedar Cañon. Know
anythin’ about it?”

“Seems like I’ve heard of it, Dusty; but I reckon it’s wiped out by
now.”

Dusty dismounted and led his horse along the trail until he found the
spot he was looking for.

“Here’s where she starts,” he announced as he swung back onto his horse.
“We’ll try her out.”

“Ain’tcha goin’ to the Cross-Anchor, Dusty?”

“Not t’night, cowboy.”

A dim moon aided them in keeping to the old trail, which was unused,
except for an occasional range steer. It wound in and out of the
ravines, taking an easy grade toward the high breaks beyond. It was
slow traveling, and Weary wondered why Dusty was taking this dim
trail instead of going around the road. The distance would only be a
trifle longer.

About three hours later they reached the top of the divide and swung
around the head of Cedar Cañon. A cold wind was blowing from the Little
Rockies and both men humped lower in their mackinaw coats.

Dusty led the way straight to where he had been ambushed, but was
unable to find the spot where he had been tied to the tree. Much of the
swelling had been reduced around his eyes, and a wide cotton bandage
circled his forehead, which still throbbed from the impact of the heavy
bullet.

They rode to the bottom of the swale, where Dusty had seen the cattle,
and it was not difficult for them to follow the spoor of the driven
herd.

“They can’t drive ’em far,” stated Dusty. “They didn’t have more than
three hours of daylight left when they got me, and that cut in on their
time. We’ll go kinda easy.”

“Yo’re danged right we’ll go easy,” agreed Weary. “I sure don’t want ’em
to knock on my head with a bullet.”

The trail of the herd led straight back into the mountains, climbing
higher all the time, swinging around the head of the cañons, where the
mesquite and sage gave way to jack-pines and small firs.

Once the gray lunged sidewise and whirled around, as a mountain lion
flashed across an opening in front of them and snarled its defiance.
Farther on, a black-tail doe crossed their path, bounded away like a
shadow and stopped in a low thicket of jack-pines to watch them pass.

On the next cañon the herd trail turned and went angling down, instead
of cutting around the top. The two men drew rein and studied the wide
cañon.

“You ever been here before, Dusty?” asked Weary softly.

“I don’t reckon I have.”

“I have,” declared the lanky one. “This is Hardpan Creek, Dusty. She
cuts through solid rock.”

“Hardpan Creek? The one the Injuns say----”

“That’s her,” declared Weary. “Heads in Diaub Lake, below the wind
caves.”

“Ever been there, Weary?”

“Sure! I’ve been around the lower end of the lake.”

“Ain’t there an old trail between the lake and the caves?”

“Yeah, I reckon there is, but nobody ever uses it. Aw, I ain’t
superstitious, Dusty, but----”

“Just cautious,” suggested Dusty.

“Well, mebbe that’s it. The Injuns swear that no man can cross between
the caves and the lake. ’Pears that the Wind God gets angry and blows
’em into the lake. Shucks, yuh couldn’t get an Injun within a mile of
there.”

“Why specify Injuns, Weary?”

“Well, I reckon that’s true, too. None of the old-timers go up there.
The ---- place is spooky, Dusty. That lake never ripples, and when the
wind blows real hard yuh can hear the caves kinda moanin’.”

“Didja ever see them caves?”

“Nope.”

“How do yuh know there is any caves?”

“How do I know there’s a New York? How do I know there’s oceans?”
retorted Weary. “I ain’t never seen ’em, but I’m willin’ to believe
what I hear.”

“Injun superstition!” exclaimed Dusty. “Old men’s tales. Shucks!”

“All right, all right!” resignedly. “Write yore own ticket, Hard-head.
If a bullet won’t kill yuh, I don’t reckon yuh need to fear the wrath of
the Wind God. I dunno a dang thing about the caves, but I don’t blame
the Injuns for namin’ the lake after the devil.”

“Where does Hardpan Creek empty?” asked Dusty.

“It don’t--it just sinks out of sight. She ain’t so much of a stream,
but she runs about two miles down the cañon from the waterfall out of
the lake, and then she kinda soaks into the rocks. The cañon kinda
closes up, and where she comes on to the flat country you’d hardly
know it was much of a cañon. I was in here huntin’ her two years
ago.”

“Well,” observed Dusty, “it ain’t more than an hour or so until
daylight; so I reckon we’ll cross the Hardpan and see what’s beyond.”

They rode slowly down into the box cañon, which seemed to be carved out
of solid stone. There was little foliage on this account, and no water.
Once across the cañon, they began a long climb, which took them angling
toward the head of the cañon.

There was no trail now; not even the tracks of the herd, but it was
difficult to determine just where the herd had left the bottom. But
Dusty knew there were but three ways for the herd to go--up the cañon,
down the cañon, or across. To go down the cañon would bring them out
on the lower rangeland, and would be of no benefit to the rustlers. To
go up the cañon would bring them to Diaub Lake, which was surrounded
with towering cliffs. Dusty had heard of this place, and knew it to be
a _cul de sac_. No, there was only one reasonable place to look for
the herd, and that was across the cañon.

Dusty did not tear his hair and call down curses upon the outlaws who
had kidnapped Stella Magruder. In the first place, he realized that the
rustlers had not stolen her through any desire on their part to acquire
her. No doubt, he thought, she rode in on them just after he had been
shot, and they were forced to detain her because she had recognized
them.

Just what they would do with her was a question. She was interfering
with their plans, and in case she had recognized some of them, it would
not be wise on their part to release her. But Dusty felt sure that she
was in no immediate danger, and he also felt that the finding of the
cattle would furnish a clew to her whereabouts.

Daylight found them on the crest of the divide, high up among the
cliffs. Dusty had intended keeping lower down, but the character of the
country had forced them to higher levels. For an hour or more they wound
in and out of the old lava-formed cliffs, until they finally reached a
spot where it was impossible to continue with the horses.

“And this,” said Dusty sorrowfully, “is the end of the chapter. I
dunno what the ---- we ever came this far for, unless it was to hunt
mountain-sheep.”

“We’re high up, cowboy,” grinned Weary, “and the world kinda slides off
quick on every side. Lemme see----”

Weary walked out to the edge, where he squatted and studied the opposite
side of the mountain.

“Dusty, I ain’t plumb sure, but I kinda feel that we’re in them high
cliffs above the wind caves. I betcha yuh could jump off right here
and almost take a bath in Diaub Lake.”

Dusty rolled a cigaret and considered things in general. Then he
dismounted and tied his horse to a gnarled snag.

“Whatcha aim to do?” queried Weary, as he tied his horse to another snag
and looped the lead-rope around the saddlehorn.

“Kinda curious,” grinned Dusty. “I’ve heard all kinds of fool things
about these caves, and I never had a chance to investigate before.”

“Shucks, yuh can’t get down to ’em. I’ve looked up at the cliffs from
the lake, and you’d have to have wings like a buzzard to make the trip,
Dusty.”

“Thasso?”

Dusty drew his rifle from the boot, and slung it under his arm.

“C’m on, long feller. Yuh don’t have to wear wings to fall with, and
she’s down--not up.”

Weary picked up his rifle.

“I ain’t got no sense,” he declared. “Not a ---- lick of sense. I swore
to uphold the law, I did. But I never said I was goin’ to get up on top
of the world to do it. Yuh made me say, ‘So help me, Gawd,’ but there
wasn’t nothin’ said about climbin’ half-way to get His help. I came out
here to kill a rustler--not to be a mountain goat.”

“What do yuh reckon we better do?” grinned Dusty.

“Satisfy yore curiosity,” grunted Weary. “Lead on!”

It was a difficult journey across the lava cliffs, where a misstep
might prove fatal. Ages ago a volcano had lifted out a mighty mass of
molten rock, which had spewed over the mountain ridge; piling up like
a gigantic rock wall; cooling to the texture of melted glass.

And it was along this great wall that Dusty and Weary crawled. On either
side was a sheer drop of a hundred feet to other ledges, which broke
away like gigantic steps to the cañon below.

“If a feller thinks he’s kinda big in the world,” panted Weary, “he can
come up here and find out just how danged small he is, y’betcha.”

Dusty hung his feet over the edge and rolled a cigaret, while Weary
edged onward a few feet and considered the other side of the cliff.
Far below him was sort of a pothole in the cliffs and beyond that was
a rocky cañon, which seemed to lead out to the timber-line.

Dusty crawled over and sprawled beside Weary. Beyond them, the cliffs
swung rather sharply to the right, and Weary pointed out the fact that
this was the spot where the cliffs turned to circle the head of Hardpan
Cañon.

“We’re sure above Diaub Lake,” he declared, and added--

“A danged long ways above.”

Dusty was studying the formation of the cliffs beyond them and paid no
attention to Weary’s statement.

“I betcha we can get down the cliffs over there,” declared Dusty,
pointing at a crevice beyond.

“That’s sure fine,” applauded Weary, dryly. “But what in thunder good
would that do us? We’d be on the wrong side of the range, don’tcha see?”

“Couldn’t we circle the side of the mountain below the cliffs and get
back to the horses?”

“Yeah?” Weary pointed to another series of cliffs, which extended far
down the mountain to their left. “We might make a thirty-mile circle,
Dusty.”

Dusty grinned and crawled ahead to where the crevice broke their chance
of further progress. It was six feet across, with a slanting surface on
the far side.

“Prettiest place I ever seen, to commit suicide,” stated Weary. “Jump
the crevice and skid backwards. Be a cinch.”

“Here’s the cinch,” replied Dusty, pointing downward. “We can go down
here easy.”

He rolled over, slid off the edge and dropped lightly to the shelf below
them, where he studied the downward path.

“We can get up here again, if we want to,” he called up to the skeptical
Weary. “Come on.”

Swearing at Dusty for being seventeen kinds of fool, Weary followed.
From shelf to shelf they dropped down the irregular crevice. At times
they went down, with their elbows and knees bracing against the sides,
until the crevice widened into another series of broken ledges.

It took them about two hours to make the descent, and they arrived at
the bottom with elbows and knees bleeding and clothes torn, but glad
to be back to earth again. From where they landed the mountain sloped
gently back into the heavy timber; a great unused range, which broke
back to the foot-hills of another county.

Dusty led the way back along the edge of the cliffs to where the
rocky cañon opened on to the mountain slope. This was a fairly wide,
box cañon, hewn by nature out of the solid lava rock. They skirted
the edge of this around to where it opened on to the mountain, and
the cliffs echoed Dusty’s yelp of joy.

“Cows!” he yelled. “Sufferin’ sunfish! Look!”

He pointed at the upward raise of ground beyond the mouth of the cañon,
where hundreds of cloven hooves had cut deeply into the soft earth.

“Whatcha know?” gasped Weary. “Them is cow tracks, as sure as the Lord
made small, sour apples, Dusty. What are they----”

“C’mon,” grunted Dusty, and raced back up the rock cañon.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Everywhere was unmistakable sign that cattle had been driven through the
rocky cleft, although there were no hoof-marks. A hundred yards beyond,
the cañon opened into the pothole, which they could see above, but which
was a rocky amphitheater, at least three hundred feet across.

At the far side of this, straight into the side of the cliff, extended
the cañon, wide enough to drive a wagon through. The two men clambered
over the uneven floor and entered the cañon, which ran straight for a
few hundred feet and then began to angle back and forth.

As far as they could see, the cleft ran straight to the top of the
cliffs, but angling in such a way that no daylight came through. There
were side clefts, wide enough to squeeze through, but they kept to the
main cañon.

Suddenly there came a moaning sound, like the starting of a ponderous
machine. Dusty and Weary stopped and looked at each other.

“The Wind God!” whispered Weary. “This must be----”

“He must be mixin’ up a cyclone,” observed Dusty, dryly “Let’s go in and
see how he does it.”

And without waiting for Weary to agree to such a thing, Dusty started
ahead, with his rifle ready for quick work. The sound had changed a
trifle now, and was more like swift running water, although the moaning
continued to a certain degree.

They swung around an angle in the cañon, and ahead of them the sunlight
shafted in along the right-hand wall.

“Daylight,” grunted Dusty in amazement. “We haven’t gone all the way
through the danged mountain yet!”

The Wind God’s machine was not making so much noise now, as the two men
passed around the corner of the cliff and emerged into sunlight. For a
moment they stopped and looked at the scene before them.

They were standing at the edge of another amphitheater-like place,
larger than the other, and with the greater part of it roofed over. It
looked like a great cave, with part of the roof fallen in, and inside
this great ventilated cave were at least two hundred head of cattle.

From the opposite side was a continuation of the wide rocky cleft, and
out of this were coming more cattle. Dusty and Weary leaned against the
rock wall and studied this scene. There were Bar-O-Bar stock from the
ranges East of Calumet; Wagon-Wheel and Banjo brands from Fisher Creek,
a few Cross-Anchor and Circle S cows.

“The country is sure well represented,” observed Dusty, grinning softly.
“I thought this was the place that the wind came from, but I finds that
it’s the place where the cows go to.”

“Look out!” snapped Weary as he whirled back into the cleft and yanked
at Dusty’s sleeve.

_Pwee-e-e-e!_

A bullet ricocheted off the rock where Dusty had leaned, while the
report of a rifle crashed with thunderous echoes. A man had come out
of the opposite cleft and had fired at first sight of them. After
firing, he had darted back inside the cleft out of sight.

“Whatcha know about that?” queried Dusty. “Mebbe that’s yore Wind God,
Weary; and he’s angry with us.”

“He had on a blue shirt,” grunted Weary foolishly.

“Must be the Wind God then,” grinned Dusty. “All them kinda gods wears
blue shirts.”

They peered out, but there was no sign of the man. Dusty hung his hat on
his rifle barrel and shoved this out, but either the man was gone, or he
was not to be fooled.

“We’re in a sweet place,” declared Weary. “I betcha that was one of the
rustlers, and they’ve got a cinch to keep us where we are.”

“We can go back, can’t we?” queried Dusty.

“S’pose they sneak in behind us; what then?”

“You sure do think sweet thoughts, cowboy,” declared Dusty. “How would
they know? That jasper out there ain’t got no chance to sneak in on us,
has he?”

“Mebbe there’s others out on the other side. Ain’t nobody goin’ to stop
’em from comin’ in the same way we did.”

“What do yuh reckon we ought to do--shoot ourselves?” asked Dusty
sarcastically.

“Well, yuh gotta look at these things--” began Weary in defense of his
argument, but Dusty had swung away from the wall into the open and
called--

“Come on, Weary!”

                   *       *       *       *       *

A number of the cattle had drifted into a compact mass in front of the
opposite opening, and Dusty was running to gain the opposite wall before
the herd broke away from that spot. Weary raced along behind him, while
cattle scattered on either side.

They brought up against the wall, panting from the run, but no shot had
been fired at them. Weary drew in gulps of air and threw a rock at some
of the frightened cattle, which had swung in close to them.

They were now in a position where the rustler would have to expose
himself to shoot at them. Dusty took his rifle in his left hand and
drew his six-shooter. He expected close-range work now, and did not
want to depend on the longer gun.

They worked cautiously around to the entrance, but there was no sign of
the man in the blue shirt. Dusty considered the cleft, which angled out
of view beyond them. It would be an excellent ambush. The cleft was not
over eight feet wide on the bottom.

“I don’t like this proposition,” declared Dusty softly. “They’ve got a
cinch on wipin’ us out in here. You keep about fifty feet behind me,
Weary; and if they are layin’ for us, you’ll have a chance to either
help me out or to get away.”

“Aw-w-w!” protested Weary. “That ain’t no way to do. You lemme go ahead,
Dusty.”

“Nope. The county elected me to do this kinda work, and yo’re only m’
hired man. Let’s go.”

Dusty walked slowly around the corner, and after a moment Weary
followed. The cleft was but a repetition of the one on the other side
of the big cattle-cave. It angled badly and Dusty was never able to
see more than fifty feet ahead. The sounds of the bawling cattle came
to them, and Dusty grinned over the noise-machine of the Wind God.

It seemed miles out of the cleft; miles of half-light, in which they
expected momentarily to be fired upon. Dusty had relaxed his tension
by this time, but was no less cautious. At times he grinned over his
shoulder at Weary, who was moving in closer all the time.

The light began to get better and Dusty moved slower and with more
caution. Suddenly he rounded a projection and before him he could see
the fringe of trees beyond. It was only a few feet out to the mountain
side. He went out slowly, bent low and took advantage of every point
of rock. He was looking for the man in the blue shirt who he knew was
not far away.

He worked out to a fringe of bushes, and just beyond him stood this man,
looking eagerly down the cañon. He held a rifle in both hands and seemed
to be trying to locate some one. Dusty did not want to have to kill him,
but he did want to capture him.

He motioned to Weary to stay there, and began working slowly out
behind him. The man had evidently decided that they would never come
on through the cleft, after he had fired the shot at them, and was
not at all concerned with things behind him.

Dusty worked in close behind him before he spoke.

“Leggo that gun!”

Dusty’s order fairly crackled in the ear of the blue-shirted man, and he
whirled quickly. It was Wharton, the bartender, who, Dusty believed, had
given him the knockout drops in Smalley’s saloon.

At the sight of Dusty, Wharton started back, which took him to the very
edge of the incline. He seemed to slip downward, whirled as if trying to
get away, and Dusty dove into him.

For a moment they spun around, grasping at each other, and then the
earth seemed to slip from under them. Like a flash Dusty realized
what had happened. The steep hillside was all shale rock, and they
had started a miniature landslide.

There was no way to check their speed; no way to stop until they reached
more secure formation. It was like sitting on a loose piece of slate and
sliding off a roof. Faster and faster they went, until they shot into
space and seemed for a moment to hang suspended in the air, but in that
short space of time, Dusty got a flash of what was below and he knew
that they were hurtling off into Diaub Lake.

And in that short space of time he realized that the old Indian
superstition had been caused by just such a thing. The treacherous shale
rock had slid away with some Indians, and the survivors had believed it
to be the work of an evil spirit.

The speed with which they were going and the angle of their departure
was all that saved them, for they did a slanting dive into not over
four feet of water. Tradition had said that it was a bottomless lake,
but Dusty realized that tradition was not always truth.

Their holds had been broken by the fall, and Dusty came upright in the
water, coughing, wheezing, but grappling for Wharton, who had had all
the wind knocked from his lungs by hitting the water. He managed to get
Wharton’s head above water, and then looked around.

Tradition had also said that no man could ever get out of that lake,
but tradition had only viewed it from one certain spot. Dusty glimpsed
a broken place in the sloping, rocky walls, over which they had fallen,
and to this place he waded, hauling the half-conscious Wharton with
him.

It was, or rather appeared to be, merely a short cleft in the rocks, but
Dusty found it to be the entrance to a regular cave. Into the mouth of
this he dragged Wharton and laid him across a rock. Wharton’s gun was in
its holster, although he had lost his rifle. Dusty was sans either rifle
or pistol; so he lost no time in appropriating Wharton’s belt and gun.

Dusty sat down against the wall and tried to find enough dry tobacco to
make a smoke. He was still shaky from the fall into the lake and needed
a bracer.

“The only danged thing about this spooky lake that’s true, is the
moisture,” he told a limp sack of tobacco.

Came the scrape of leather on rock and Dusty whirled, gun in hand. For a
moment he squinted closely, as though not believing his eyes. He looked
down at Wharton and back toward the lake, as though trying to solve the
mystery, but his eyes came back to the dim entrance to the tunnel, where
Stella Magruder was standing, one hand braced against the rocky wall,
staring at him.

“Well,” remarked Dusty inanely, “there may not be any wind gods around
here, but there’s everythin’ else.”

“Dusty!” Stella seemed uncertain of her own voice.

“That’s me!” nodded Dusty. “Champeen high-diver of the Big Bear
country.”

“But, Dusty,” she faltered, “you--you----”

She came toward him, as if expecting him to fade into thin air, and he
got to his feet before her. She tried to smile, but failed dismally.

“You are not dead?” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Dusty slowly. “I’ve sure done everythin’ I
could to pass out.”

There was an awkward silence as they looked at each other, and then
Dusty grinned widely.

“Stell, I’ve found out where all the stolen cows have been taken, and
I’m goin’ to clean up the Sticky Ropes.”

Stella turned her head and stared out past the broken rock entrance,
where the unruffled waters of Diaub Lake shone like polished jade. Her
eyes were wide with suffering and the corners of her mouth twitched, as
if her soul were shrieking to explain things that her tongue did not
dare to tell.

Dusty looked curiously at her and put his hand on her arm.

“Whatsa matter, Stell?”

Still she did not turn her head, and Dusty squinted out across the lake.
As far as he could see there was nothing to cause such a steadfast gaze
in that direction. He repeated his question, and she turned slowly back
to him.

“Dusty, do you--you--” she faltered. “Why do you have to clean up the
Sticky Ropes?”

“Why?” Dusty almost squeaked the question. “Why, Stell, they’re a bunch
of murderin’ rustlers, that’s why. They’ve run a lot of cow-men out of
the Big Bear country, and they’ve stolen a fortune in cattle. I’ve got
’em where the hair is short right now.”

Stella had leaned back against the rocky wall and was nervously
arranging her tousled hair. Wharton lifted his head a trifle, but Dusty
was watching Stella and did not see him roll slowly over and get to his
knees.

“And they stole you, Stell’,” stated Dusty. “After they thought they
had killed me. I reckon that’s a-plenty for me to clean-up on ’em.
They was sure a slick bunch, don’tcha know it? They drove the cattle
up Hardpan Creek, over the rim-rock at the upper side of Diaub Lake
and into that rocky cut, which runs plumb through the cliffs.

“The stock never left a track, and none of the cow-men ever knew that
there was a way through the cliffs. It was the old wind caves of the
Blackfeet, which opened into Bunchgrass County, and they had a cinch
to drive out of the mountains and down to Firebaugh or Hastings.”

Dusty laughed heartily over the simplicity of it all, and his laugh
was echoed by the scrape and thump of running feet. He whirled in time
to see Wharton disappearing into the gloom of the narrow tunnel. Dusty
fired once and the bullet whined off the rock, like the shriek of a
fiddle-string.

Stella tried to clutch Dusty’s arm, as he sprang past her, but he tore
away and ran into the tunnel. He could hear Wharton running ahead of
him, but the passage was too narrow for fast work.

Suddenly the cave widened to the proportions of a room, and Dusty saw
that it was roughly furnished as a living quarters. Blankets were
strewn on the floor, together with boxes and cooking utensils, and in
one corner smoldered a small fire. An old barn-lantern was hanging to
a rocky projection.

As Dusty dashed into the room he saw Wharton’s legs just disappearing
up what appeared to be a stairway outlet, and which proved to be a
short ladder, leading to the continuation of the cave. Dusty went
cautiously up this ladder and raced on through another narrow tunnel,
which was very dark.

Then he seemed to feel the jar of a shot and the muffled echo of an
explosion. He forced his way around two almost right-angled turnings
and fairly fell out into the light of day. He stopped and stared
foolishly around. He was out at almost the exact spot where he had
tackled Wharton, and, sitting on the ground, nursing his head, was
Weary Willis.

Weary looked up at Dusty and his mouth fell open, as if some one had
severed his jaw muscles. Weary had a bruised spot over his right eye,
which was already swelled to the proportions of an egg.

“Well, I’ll be ----!” he snorted. “You’re dead, ain’t yuh, Dusty?”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Dusty. “Turned into a wind god. Did somebody come out
here a moment ago, Weary?”

Weary gawped toward the opening and back to Dusty. He nodded violently
and rubbed his forehead.

“Yo’re danged well right they did! I figured that you was dead; so I
was goin’ back through the cliffs and climb back to the horses, and I
got this far, when a evil spirit hopped out of that wall, knocked me
upside down and flitted away through the entrance. I shot at it; but,
shucks, there ain’t no use shootin’ at spirits.”

“That was Wharton, who tended bar for Sapphire Smalley,” said Dusty.
“The feller that handed me the knockout drops.”

“No?” Weary got to his feet and rubbed his head. “Do yuh mean to tell
me that I let a bartender walk all over me thataway? By cripes, I’m
goin’ ----.”

Weary stared over Dusty’s shoulder and blinked rapidly. Stella had come
out of the tunnel and was standing within a few feet of them. Weary tore
his eyes away from her and looked out toward the entrance. He cleared
his throat and hitched up his belt nervously.

“Did he get away, Dusty?” asked Stella softly.

“----!” croaked Weary hoarsely. “I’m glad yuh spoke, Miss Magruder,
’cause I was sure girdin’ m’ loins for a foot-race. I thought yuh was
a ghost.”

“Lotta ghosts around here,” observed Dusty thoughtfully, panting a
trifle from his chase through the caves.

“Did--did he get away?” faltered Stella.

“Yeah, he got away, Stell’; but I’ve got the deadwood on him, y’betcha.”

Weary turned and walked to the edge of the slide above the lake, seeking
to get a glimpse of Wharton, leaving Dusty and Stella alone, facing each
other.

“I ain’t quite sure who they all are, Stell,” stated Dusty, after a
moment’s pause. “But I reckon you can tell me a lot of things, can’t
yuh?”

Stella brushed a hand across her face, as she stared down at the rocky
floor, but looked up at Dusty and shook her head.

“No, I can’t tell you anything, Dusty.”

“You can’t?” Dusty’s face was very serious now. “You don’t know who
brought yuh here, Stell’?”

“I didn’t say that, Dusty; I said I couldn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, I----”

Dusty scratched his tousled hair and squinted into space. It was a
trifle beyond his ken.

“Yuh know who brought yuh here, but yuh can’t--” Dusty hesitated and the
lines about his wide mouth grew tense.

“Stell’, yuh mean that yuh
love--somebody--who--belongs--to--them--Sticky Ropes? Do yuh--Stell’?”

Her eyes were filled with tears, as she looked at him and nodded slowly.

“More than anything in the world, I think.”

“----!” breathed Dusty. “I--I didn’t know--that. Somehow--” Dusty turned
and stared toward Weary, who was still watching for Wharton--“somehow I
kinda hoped----”

Stella stepped in closer and put her hand on his arm.

“Dusty, you’ll do this for me? You’ll forget the Sticky Ropes, for my
sake?”

Dusty looked closely at her and his eyes dropped to the bosom of his
torn shirt, where his badge of office was pinned at an awkward angle.
He lifted his right hand and felt of the rough bandage which covered
the throbbing mark of a rustler’s bullet.

“I--I know they tried to kill you, Dusty,” said Stella softly.

“That ain’t it,” Dusty shook his head. “That’s personal, Stell. It ain’t
what they done to me; it’s what I swore I’d do, when I took office. And
I reckon a lot of folks are kinda lookin’ for me t’ make good.”

“But, Dusty, won’t you do this for my sake. It--it means a--lot, Dusty.”

“I reckon the son-of-a-gun got plumb away!” called Weary. “He was goin’
fast enough t’ be in Canada by this time.”

Dusty walked away from Stella and went out to where Weary was still
scanning the country. Weary looked back at Stella, leaning against the
rocky wall, and then at Dusty’s dejected expression.

“Whatsa matter, cowboy?” he half-whispered, seeing that something had
gone badly amiss.

“She won’t tell me who the Sticky Ropes are,” said Dusty, “and she wants
me to go away and let ’em alone.”

Weary whistled and hitched up his belt.

“What’sa big idea, Dusty?”

“Well,” Dusty compressed his lips a moment. “Well, she didn’t ask me not
to tell yuh, Weary; so I reckon yuh better know about it. She loves one
of them rustlers.”

“Aw-w-w, ----!” Weary fairly exploded.

“Sure is,” agreed Dusty. “Worse ’n that, Weary.”

“Young Ramsey?”

“I--I never thought of him, but I reckon that’s right. But what in
thunder had he got to do with the Sticky Ropes? He’s a stranger around
here.”

Stella was coming up to them now, and Weary turned away, as if he did
not want to speak to her. For a space of time she stood beside Dusty,
looking out over the sun-lit crags beyond the lake.

“I haven’t treated you very nicely, Dusty,” she said, without turning
her head. “I think I always wanted to tease you, and it is hard to ask
favors of you now.”

“Thass all right--” quickly--“I didn’t mind--much, Stell.”

“Can’t you just ride away and forget what happened yesterday and today,
Dusty?”

Dusty looked keenly at her. She was asking him to forget his sworn
duty; asking him to forget that a band of thieves and murderers were
operating in that land; asking him to do this because she loved one
of the thieves. The irony of it all struck Dusty, and he grinned
widely.

“You will do this, Dusty?” Stella had seen the grin wreath his wide
lips, and she spoke eagerly.

“I reckon,” drawled Dusty slowly, “I reckon I’m a ---- of a sheriff.
C’mon, Weary!”

And without a backward glance Dusty walked slowly back to the main
crevice of the wind cave, with Weary following him. At the entrance
Dusty looked back. Stella was standing where he had left her, watching
them. She waved her hand, but Dusty turned and went into the half-light
of the cave, without a sign to her.

Once around the protecting angle of the entrance, Dusty stopped, leaned
against the wall and began the manufacture of a cigaret. Weary shifted
his rifle to the crook of his elbow, and reached for Dusty’s “makin’s.”

“I’ve read about danged fools,” stated Weary slowly, “but yo’re the
first one I’ve ever met, Dusty.”

Dusty grinned and lit his cigaret.

“Well, yuh sure picked a champeen f’r a starter, Weary.”

“Y’betcha,” seriously. “Yuh may be a hero in the mind of that girl, but
you’d shoot me f’r what I’m thinkin’ about yuh right now, cowboy.”

“I believe in free thinkin’ m’self,” nodded Dusty, squatting down on his
heels. “I wish I had that rifle out of the lake, Weary. My six-gun is
down there, too. She’s a good thing that Wharton used the same caliber
six-gun, or I’d be half-out of shells right now.”

“Um-m-m,” Weary squinted away from the smoke of his cigaret and peered
at Dusty.

“Ain’t we goin’ back to the horses now, Dusty?”

“Nope, not now. There’s such a thing as bein’ too danged much of a
hero.”

“You told Stella you was goin’ away, didn’t yuh?”

“Nope. I told her that I was a ---- of a sheriff, and that ain’t no lie,
Weary.”

Dusty crawled back to the entrance, where he could peer out and see the
full sweep of the opening. Weary moved in behind him, grumbling softly.

“What’sa matter?” queried Dusty.

“Hungry. My gosh, we ain’t had nothin’ t’ eat since last night.”

“And the pack-horse three hours away,” grinned Dusty. “Ne’mind, cowboy.
If we get hungry enough we’ll sneak back and barbecue a steer. I betcha
them hills back there are full of stolen cattle. They must ’a’ drove ’em
in here and worked ’em slow-like back into that big cave, let ’em get
kinda used to things and then shoved ’em out the other side.”

“Got any idea who the rustlers are?”

“Jack Bonn is one of ’em, Weary. And I’m thinkin’ that the depot agent
at Calumet is another. I sent a telegram to Searchlight, askin’ about
Jack Bonn, and you see the answer I got back. It was signed by a sheriff
by the name of Wilson, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I ’member that, Dusty.”

“Well, I found a reward notice at the office, and the sheriff’s name
in Claypool. The reward was sent out last month and they ain’t had no
election down there. No, that danged agent faked up that telegram,
Weary. And that is what put the deadwood on Mister Bonn.

“I had a hunch that it might be a smart thing to have Shorty Miles ride
in and get Bonn and Shirey and take ’em down to the Cross-Anchor, while
we investigated things up here. No use buckin’ the whole works, unless
we have to; and they’d fall for a chance to help me hunt for Stella.
They’d get me out in this country and make a sieve out of me.”

“You ain’t such a danged fool after all,” applauded Weary.

“Well, yuh don’t need to get too enthusiastic,” reprimanded Dusty. “We
ain’t out of this yet, yuh must remember.”

Neither of them were wearing a watch, but the long shadows across the
mouth of the rock cañon showed that the sun was almost down. Stella
had gone back to the living quarters in the cave, following the
disappearance of Dusty and Weary, but now she came out again, walked
to the rocks above the lake and appeared to be scanning the country
closely. After a few minutes she went back into the cave.

“She’s lookin’ for ’em to come back,” observed Weary.

“Losin’ Wharton kinda soured my game,” grinned Dusty. “He likely spread
the glad tidin’s, which will make ’em all kinda go soft-like.”

The sun disappeared and darkness came swiftly, blotting out all detail;
yet there was no sign of the rustlers. It was getting uncomfortably cool
among the rocks and Weary complained audibly.

“Why don’t yuh sneak back to the horses and get our blankets?” asked
Dusty.

“Go through these danged caves?” queried Weary. “Not me! Climb up to
the top of the world in the dark? My gosh, it gives me goose-pimples
t’ think of it.”

It was about an hour later that something seemed to move among the
rocks; something that moved slowly along the floor of the entrance and
disappeared near the opening to the dwelling-cave.

“One of ’em came back,” chuckled Dusty. “He sure snaked his way in this
time, and he’ll sure be tickled t’ know that me and you pulled out quite
a while ago.”

About five minutes later two figures came out of the cave, carrying a
lantern. The yellow light threw grotesque shadows on the high, rocky
walls, as the two figures walked to the extreme edge above the lake.

After holding the lantern steady for a moment, the figure holding it
began to swing it in circles, causing it to look like a wheel of yellow
light. Then the light was extinguished.

“Signalin’ the rest of the wind gods,” observed Dusty.

It was impossible to see the two figures now, as they blended into the
landscape, but ten minutes later came the scrape of metal on stone, the
jingle of bit-chains, and over the rim, at the left-hand side, came a
number of horsemen. It was impossible to tell their number, but the
drone of several voices came to Dusty and Weary’s ears.

Then they went noisily across the rocky floor and into the small cave
entrance, rattling their spurs and arguing brokenly.

Dusty led the way over to the horses, of which there were five.

“This is Bonn’s horse,” whispered Dusty, rubbing the neck of a tall
sorrel. “Know any others, Weary?”

“Here’s old Snag Shirey’s glass-eyed roan,” grunted Weary.

“C’mon,” whispered Dusty, and led the way to the opening where the men
had disappeared. Once inside he cautioned Weary about the short ladder,
as it would be a fine place to take a nasty fall.

This ladder was located in such a way that Dusty and Weary were able
to reach the level of the cave floor without exposing themselves to
the men inside, but it required that they climb down the side of the
ladder, protecting themselves with the projecting ledge.

Once at the bottom they squeezed in close to the wall and listened to
the conversation of the inhabitants, who were not over twenty feet away.
The fire had been rebuilt and some one was rattling tin-ware. Out of the
jumble of conversation came Bonn’s voice angrily--

“Well, whose fault was it that things got balled up?”

“I told yuh what happened to me--” this from Wharton--“I took a shot at
’em back in the big cave, and I didn’t think they’d be fools enough to
keep on comin’.”

“You’ve told us that a hundred times,” sneered Bonn. “What do yuh reckon
we ought to do--kiss yuh?”

“Wait a minute,” this from a strange voice. “There’s no use blaming
anybody, Bonn. What happened has happened, and if we’ve got any sense
left, we’ll use it up in futures, not in pasts.”

“Futures!” sneered Bonn. “We’ve got somethin’ to look forward to, ain’t
we? Things were going all right until you thought you had to come over
and hurry things along, Rand.”

Rand! Dusty frowned over this name. That was a new one on him. Who was
Rand? Dusty did not dare to look around the corner of the rock, because
the firelight had already painted it with an orange and red glow. It
would be like putting his face into a spot-light.

“I’m the one that was paying for it,” said Rand. “It was my money, Bonn;
remember that.”

“And my scheme!” reminded Bonn.

“You can have that credit,” laughed Rand, and another voice joined in
the laugh.

“Your big mistake was that you didn’t kill that sheriff, Bonn,” again it
was a new voice entering the conversation.

There was a space of a few seconds, and Wharton’s voice whined:

“Yuh don’t need to look at me thataway, Bonn. I didn’t have nothin’ but
knockout drops to give him, but I gave him enough to kill a horse.”

Dusty grinned widely at this and nudged Weary in the ribs. Dusty was
thoroughly enjoying himself now, and cared little what happened in the
future.

“I think it was a crazy-man’s idea all the time,” declared Snag Shirey’s
voice. Snag was evidently preparing the meal, as his voice came from
over by the fire.

“What do you mean?” queried the heavy voice of Rand.

“That just because yuh cleaned up on sheep in Wyoming ain’t no reason
yuh could do it here. You hired us to steal cows and put the fear of God
into the Big Bear cow-men, but it ain’t worked out like you said.”

“Is that so? Just what did I say?”

“You said that inside of a year every ranch in Big Bear could be bought
for a third what it’s worth, didn’t yuh? You wanted to buy the whole
upper end of it for a sheep ranch, but I don’t see yuh doin’ it.”

It was plain to Dusty now. The little note-book had the code for wires
between Bonn and Rand. Their scheme was practically to force the sale of
Big Bear ranchers, and to turn the wide range into sheep. And the scheme
was also bringing them a big revenue in stolen cattle. The depot agent
was also a tool of Rand.

“What kick have you got comin’, Shirey?” queried Bonn. “You’re gettin’
yore share of the money, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I s’pose so, but the game is up now. Corbett knows where the cows
went to and he likely knows who brought ’em here. This business was all
right, as long as nobody knowed how it was done. There’s only one thing
left t’ do, and that is for all of us to fade out of this country and go
a ---- long ways from here.”

Shirey’s feet scraped back to the fire and he began rattling his pans
again. To Dusty’s nostrils came the savory odors of boiling coffee.
He knew now what the main purpose of the Sticky Ropes was. He took a
chance and peered around the corner of the ledge.

The elder Ramsey was standing beside Bonn in the center of the room.
Shirey was humped over the fire, busy peeling potatoes, while the
younger Ramsey was sitting on a boulder, watching Shirey and smoking
a cigaret. Wharton leaned against the wall facing Bonn and Ramsey,
while further back, near the exit to the lake, sat Stella, paying no
attention to the others in the cave. As Dusty looked at her she got
up and went slowly out of the cave. Bonn turned his head and looked
in her direction for a moment and then laughed as he turned to
Ramsey.

“Ramsey is Rand,” mused Dusty. “Rand was in sheep in Wyoming, and
cleaned up on them.”

Young Ramsey, or Rand, turned and sauntered out of the lake exit, and
Dusty’s lips shut in a tight line. It was easy enough to grin at the
thoughts of any one else having Stella, but it was different to see her
accepted sweetheart walking out to meet her. Bonn was talking again and
Dusty stopped his painful musings to listen closely.

“Corbett is sure one plain ---- fool,” declared Bonn.

“Luckily for us,” agreed Ramsey warmly, “you don’t reckon he’ll come
back, do you?”

“Not him,” laughed Bonn. “He’s stuck on Stella and he won’t do anythin’
to hurt her feelin’s. Naw, yuh can count him out of the deal entirely.”

Shirey straightened up from the fire.

“How much did Corbett know about us--before today, Bonn?”

“Not a ---- thing, Snag.”

“Then why did he blat at yuh down in Calumet?”

“I dunno,” Bonn shook his head. “Jist happened to, I reckon.”

“Thasso?” Shirey was unconvinced. “He didn’t have no cause t’ do it, and
he winked one eye at me when he done it.”

“You gittin’ scared too?” queried Bonn sarcastically.

“Yo’re ---- right. Any old time yuh think I ain’t--think ag’in!
Every one of us has inherited a rope, yuh must remember, and if we
ain’t careful we’re goin’ t’ collect. Weary Willis was with Corbett,
and knows about it too, don’t he? Dusty might keep his mouth shut on
account of the girl, but yuh gotta remember that Weary Willis ain’t
in love with her.”

“There’s a lotta sense in that argument,” agreed Wharton. “We’re up
against a cold-deck from now on. We’ve either got to take care of
Corbett, Weary and the girl or fade pronto.”

Dusty leaned in closer. What did Wharton mean about “taking care of the
girl?” He knew that it meant an attempt to kill him and Weary, but why
kill Stella?

“Do you think I’m going to quit now?” demanded Ramsey heatedly. “I’ve
spent a lot of money getting as far as I have. Shirey’s ranch cost me
fifteen thousand dollars, alone.

“It’s a ---- shame that things broke the way they did, but I ain’t going
to quit. No ---- love-sick sheriff and a pink-faced female are going to
break up my deal--not that anybody knows about!”

“Mebbe he’s love-sick, I dunno,” Shirey shook his head. “Palo Huston
missed him and got his. Palo was m’ bunkie.”

“He bungled the job,” declared Ramsey. “Got drunk and shot high. I ain’t
got no job for a bungler.”

Shirey nodded slowly.

“I reckon so, Ramsey. Kinda funny about Palo bein’ killed with a
thirty-eight gun. Corbett don’t shoot no thirty-eight.”

“Not if yuh believe Corbett,” said Bonn meaningly.

“I do--kinda. Yuh see, he ain’t never lied to me, Bonn.”

“What’s the use of arguing about it?”

Ramsey was a trifle angry, and in spite of his boastings was not a
little worried over the outcome.

“Not a bit of use,” agreed Bonn. “Shirey would rather argue than drink
good liquor, and I was accommodatin’ him. Now, we might as well plan out
what we’re goin’ to do, eh?”

Ramsey nodded and looked toward the lake exit.

“The girl won’t be hard to dispose of, but it’s got to be done pretty
quick. Then we’ve got to make a quick job of the sheriff and deputy.
It’s not only got to be a ---- quick job, but it’s got to be a sure
job.

“Nobody, except those three, know that we’re into this. By tomorrow
morning these hills will be filled with men, hunting for that girl; and
if we don’t settle the hash of Corbett and Willis they’ll be leading the
posse into here.”

Stella and the younger Ramsey were coming back into the cave, and Bonn
turned to Stella.

“Did Dusty Corbett swear to you that he was going to forget what he knew
about us and this place?”

Stella thought for a moment and shook her head.

“No, I--I don’t think he did.”

“He didn’t?” Ramsey seemed surprized. “What did he say?”

“He said--” Stella paused and reflected back to her conversation with
Dusty--“he said, ‘I reckon I’m a ---- of a sheriff.’”

For a moment there was silence, and then Snag Shirey laughed harshly.

“What the ---- are yuh laughin’ about?” snapped Bonn nervously.

“Laughin’ about that promise,” replied Snag. “Yuh thought that Corbett
was a fool, didn’t yuh?”

Bonn snarled and turned to Stella.

“Does Corbett know who is in this gang?” Stella pointed at Wharton.

“He was here. I didn’t tell him any more names, but I think he knows.”

“Yuh think he does, eh?” Bonn sneered openly at her now. “He loved
you so much that he was willin’ to keep his mouth shut, did he? He
did, like ----! I wish your horse had fell and killed you, instead of
dumping you among us yesterday. It would have saved us all a ---- lot
of trouble.”

“Why, what do you mean?” gasped Stella stepping back from him.

“I mean that you was worth a lot more dead than alive to us, but nobody
thought of it at that time.”

Bonn turned angrily to Snag.

“I reckon it was you that proposed bringin’ her here, wasn’t it? Yeah?
And it also was you that declared Dusty Corbett too dead to skin, wasn’t
it? You sure tied a rope around our necks.”

“Hold your temper!” snapped the elder Ramsey, or Rand. “No use cursing
Shirey for making a mistake like that. I thought Corbett was dead, and
so did you.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Stella, and Dusty could see that her face
was dead white in the pale light. “You told me----”

Bonn interrupted her with a nasty laugh:

“You little fool! Go over there by the wall and set down!”

“Mr. Rand, won’t you tell me what it means?” Stella appealed to the
elder Rand, who merely grunted and turned away and spoke directly to
Shirey.

“Do you know any short-cuts out of here to Calumet?”

“No,” said Shirey shortly.

“You and Wharton have got to go to Calumet and ‘get’ Corbett and Willis
tonight. Make a clean job of it and I’ll give you a thousand dollars
apiece. If you knew a short-cut, it might save you from meeting any one
on the way.”

Shirey laughed and shook his head.

“Not me, Rand. When I go out of here I’m pointin’ the other way; _sabe_?
I’ve rustled cows for yuh and all that, but I ain’t killed nobody--yet.”

Rand was watching Shirey closely, and now he moved in closer,
menacingly.

“You dirty coward!” he gritted. “You can’t quit on me. I don’t stand for
a quitter nor a bungler. Palo Huston bungled.”

“You didn’t kill him, Rand.” Snag was grinning like a coyote now as he
slouched, half against the rocky wall.

“No, I didn’t kill him!” snapped Rand, “But, by ----, I had him killed.
Bonn bungled once, but he made good the second time.”

Shirey looked at Bonn curiously.

“You killed him, eh? Just because he missed?”

“He missed,” said Rand coldly. “He had orders to keep sober. I won’t
have a drunk nor a fool. If Bonn hadn’t dumped him over the trail he
would have talked in his delirium and put a rope around our necks.”

“It didn’t do no good,” said Shirey wearily. “We’ve got the rope comin’
just the same.”

“Not if you and Wharton bump off those two officers,” declared Rand.

“What about the girl?” this from the younger Ramsey, who broke into the
conversation for the first time.

The elder Rand looked at Stella, who had sat down on a rock near the
lake exit. She did not look up at him, and he turned to his son.

“There’s only one thing to do with her--unless you want to get hung--and
the rest of us.”

Young Rand laughed nervously.

“I don’t think I do, old man.”

“Better let her alone until we’re sure of Corbett and Willis,” suggested
Wharton. “We can keep her hid, but they’re dangerous as long as they’re
alive.”

“Keep nobody hid!” growled Bonn. “They can’t hang us any higher, can
they? We’ve got to clean up the whole bunch and be down at Shirey’s
place when the whole ---- Bear range comes huntin’ for her. Magruder
knew that we went back there.

“He knows that it was the Sticky Ropes that pulled off the job, and he
don’t know who they are. It was lucky for us that Shorty Miles found
us there at Shirey’s ranch, ’cause it proves a good alibi for us. If
they didn’t find us there now, it would prove that we was huntin’ for
the girl, but I’d rather be found there. Now, do we save our necks, or
stretch ’em?”

“Shirey and Wharton will go to Calumet,” declared Rand, “and the rest of
us will finish the job here.”

“I reckon that Wharton and me will go to Calumet,” stated Bonn. “I want
this to be a sure job and I don’t trust Shirey.”

Shirey laughed harshly. It was more of a cackle than a laugh; a
mirthless flutter of his vocal cords.

“Yuh didn’ trust m’ bunkie,” shrilled Shirey. “You killed him ’cause
yuh didn’t trust him, Bonn. Yuh didn’t give him a chance. Yuh don’t
trust me, and it’s an even break. Shoot, you coyote!”

Shirey fairly shrieked the last word, as his arm flashed down and up
from his holster. But young Rand had drawn his gun, as Shirey had
flung his challenge, and he fired as Shirey drew. Bonn’s gun whipped
from its holster and covered Shirey, as he fell, but there was no
need for a second shot.

The pistol shot thundered hollowly in the cave and seemed to echo far
out through the rocky crevices.

“Good work!” Bonn’s voice sounded weak, as he clapped a hand on Rand’s
shoulder. “He was mighty fast on the draw.”

“Now, we’ll have to explain what became of Shirey,” complained Wharton.
“This is one ---- of a mess.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Dusty drew back and motioned Weary up the ladder. It was a precarious
piece of climbing, but the others inside the cave were too interested
for a moment to hear what slight noise they made. Once outside, Dusty
led the way back to the horses and collected the lariat ropes. Weary
did not ask any questions, but followed Dusty to the edge of the slide
above the lake, where they knotted the ropes together.

“---- only knows whether it’ll reach or not,” grunted Dusty, “but I’ve
gotta take a chance. Stay here, Weary.”

Dusty knotted the rope to a snag and backed down the slide cautiously,
so as not to dislodge any of the shale rock. It was a slow difficult
job, and Dusty realized the need of haste.

Once at the edge of the break he swung over and slid down to the water.
The rope barely brushed the surface of the lake. There was no visible
glow from the lighted cavern, and he was forced to grope his way along
until he could locate the entrance. The water was very cold.

Inside he crawled until he came to the almost square turn which masked
the entrance. He peered around this and found himself almost in reach
of Stella, who was sitting with her back to him. To apprize her of his
presence might startle her and warn the others. Bonn was talking and
looking toward her.

“It’ll take all night,” stated Bonn, “but we’ll do the job up right,
Rand. If anybody shows up there early, you tell ’em that me and
Shirey went out to watch a deer-lick. We’ll make a mystery out of
Shirey’s disappearance. If we ain’t back by noon--we won’t be back;
so you fellers better git goin’.”

Dusty knew that Bonn and Wharton would miss their ropes and also
discover Weary; so he took a chance and hissed softly at Stella. The
first time she started to turn her head, but turned back to look at
the elder Rand, who had started toward her. Again Dusty hissed and
whispered quickly:

“This is Dusty, Stell. Sneak out easy!”

Rand was coming toward her, and she got to her feet, as though in fear
of him, and began backing out of the cavern. Rand laughed and stopped.

“You won’t go far, I guess,” he remarked as he stopped and spoke to
Bonn, who was starting for the ladder.

Stella backed around the angle and Dusty grasped her by the arm,
hurrying her along.

“Don’t talk!” he gritted into her ear. “And don’t be afraid of the
water; it ain’t deep.”

She caught her breath, as he hurried her off the ledge and into the icy
water, but she did not break her silence. As swiftly as possible, Dusty
led her along the border of the lake, feeling for the rope-end. He had
not realized the difficulty of finding it again.

Came the scrape of boots on rocks, a moment’s silence and then a
withering curse from the lips of the elder Rand. He had reached the edge
of the lake and had not found Stella. He turned and went stumbling back
into the cavern, cursing wickedly.

Dusty swung his arm in a circle in the dark and his wrist struck the
dangling rope.

“Stell, I’ve gotta leave yuh a little while,” whispered Dusty. “Yuh
can’t climb this alone, and it ain’t long enough to tie around yuh; but
mebbe I can give yuh enough slack to do the job. If I can’t, yuh gotta
hang on with yore hands, when I git up there. I’ll give a little yank,
and when yore all ready, you yank twice; _sabe_?”

“All right, Dusty,” she whispered. “Go ahead!”

Dusty grasped the rope, but before he could pull himself out of the
water the beams of a lantern flooded the entrance to the cavern, and
the four men came out.

“You’re crazy!” growled Bonn, “She never went into the lake of her own
accord.”

He lifted the lantern above his head and peered out across the water. A
second later Dusty fired, and the lantern chimney showered glass against
the rocks. With a startled curse, Bonn dropped the wrecked lantern and
fell back into a safe place.

Other voices swore wonderingly and one of the men tried to scratch a
match.

“Don’t do that, you ---- fool!” roared Bonn. “Want to make a target of
yourself?”

“Did that girl get a gun?” queried Wharton shakily. “Which way did the
shot come from, Bonn?”

“How do I know?” snarled Bonn. “It came from the lake, that’s all I
know.”

“Well, she can’t get away, can she?” asked young Rand. “There ain’t no
way out except this way, is there?”

“No, there ain’t,” declared Bonn, “but it would be a cinch for any one
to see her from the other side of the lake. Mebbe she couldn’t stand it
to be in that water all night, but we’d be takin’ a chance.”

“Well, what’ll we do?” demanded young Rand. “Shall we roost there all
night?”

“No, that won’t do,” objected Bonn, “We’ve got to do that job in Calumet
tonight. The girl can’t get out of the lake.”

They turned and went back inside--at least some of them did, but Dusty
knew that some one of them remained at the ledge to watch.

Cautiously he lifted himself from the water and began climbing the rope,
while his dripping clothes poured a shower of water back into the lake.
There was no use in being cautious now. If any one remained on guard at
the entrance they would know that their quarry was escaping in some way.
He heard the scrape of boots, as the watcher turned and hurried inside.

Dusty dropped back into the lake, steadied himself with the rope and
grasped Stella by the arm.

“Back into the cave,” he whispered. “They think I’ve gone over the top.”

They struggled back to the ledge and in through the crevice. A straight
view through the cavern showed it to be empty, and they half-ran into
it, thinking that every one had gone out. A noise behind them caused
Dusty to whirl around and look straight into the muzzle of Bonn’s
pistol.

“Foxy, eh?” gritted Bonn triumphantly. “I figured it was somethin’ like
this. I knowed the girl didn’t have no gun, and you was my big bet.”

Bonn laughed wickedly. From outside came the whang of a shot, and his
eyes flashed to the ladder exit for a fraction of a second.

“Mebbe that’s the end of yore deputy,” he grinned. “It’s three to one
out there, Corbett. You sure saved us a trip to town.”

“You didn’t think we came back--just two of us, did yuh?” queried Dusty.

Bonn’s eyelids quivered a trifle, but the rest of his face did not
change expression. He did not know whether Dusty was bluffing or not.

“Don’t try to bluff me, Corbett. You and Weary never left here
today--and you never will leave here.”

Dusty’s eyes shifted to the body of Snag Shirey, which was acting
queerly for a dead person. Shirey was trying to get up on his hands
and knees. He was almost directly behind Bonn, who noticed the intent
expression on Dusty’s face. But Bonn was not to be fooled by any such
trick. He knew that he ought to shoot Dusty, but he wanted to talk a
while--boast a little more.

“None of that kinda stuff, Corbett,” he warned.

Dusty did not lift his eyes, as he said: “By golly, that’s funny. Yuh
ought t’ look, Bonn.”

Snag was getting to his feet now, his face distorted with pain and his
eyes fixed on Bonn’s back.

“Funny, eh?” snarled Bonn. “I’m too old in this game to be fooled by
a trick like that, Corbett; so don’t be ---- fool enough to think it.
Listen to me.”

Stella was watching Bonn, her face white. She was afraid that Bonn
might turn, and she knew that Dusty was overdoing his part of it to be
sure that Bonn would not look. Shirey had found his gun now, but his
arm muscles were uncertain, which made it dangerous for both Dusty and
Stella. He weaved on his legs, looking around dazedly, as though not
exactly sure of himself. Bonn’s face was distorted with wrath and his
knuckles were white in the firelight, as he gripped the heavy Colt
pistol.

“---- you!” snapped Bonn. “You fool, do yuh think----”

Came a harsh cackle from Shirey’s lips. He had heard Bonn’s voice and
the mists had been swept away from his numbed mind. Bonn jerked forward,
as though from an electric shock, but he did not dare to turn. He was as
a man paralyzed. Death was behind him--and to turn was to give Dusty a
chance for a quick draw. And he knew that Dusty was swift.

“He, he, he, he!” cackled Shirey. “Palo was m’ bunkie, Bonn. Do yuh want
to take it in the back or the front?”

From the outside came the thud of another shot.

“Back or the front?” cackled Shirey, “He, he, he! Yo’re a dead man,
Bonn. You’ve killed a-plenty--now take yours.”

Bonn whirled, stumbled against the uneven floor, while Shirey’s
six-shooter spouted flame in the dim light. Dusty flung Stella aside
and dove into Shirey, flinging him back against the wall, where he
collapsed.

Came the thud of another shot, and two men seemed to fairly hurtle
in sight down the ladder, crashing together at the bottom, fighting,
striking. It was young Rand and Wharton. Dusty caught a whirling
glimpse of them, as he sprang away from Shirey, and then came the
third body, dropping feet first into them.

“Yee-o-o-ow!” came Weary’s yell. “Hookum cow!”

Weary was trying to do a war-dance on Wharton and young Rand and trying
to bounce his pistol barrel off their heads at the same time. Dusty ran
over to him and grasped Rand by the legs, yanking him out of the mix-up,
while Weary confined his attentions to putting Wharton _hors de combat_.

Dusty dragged Rand over near the fire. Rand’s gun had been lost in the
scuffle and he looked dazedly up at Dusty, as if not understanding what
had happened.

“I kinda hoodled ’em, didn’t I?” crowed Weary, dragging the unconscious
Wharton over to the fire.

“One of ’em musta seen me out there and snuck up on me.”

Weary glanced around over the victims and rubbed his chin.

“I reckon it was papa, after e-liminatin’ the rest. Anyway, he tackled
me out there on that slidin’ stuff, and I kicked his feet out from under
him and took a wing-shot at him as he went over the edge.

“These other two got kinda numerous and I drove ’em back into the hole.
Why didn’t yuh come on up the rope? I felt yuh yank hard on it and in a
minute yuh let loose of it.”

Rand sat up dazedly and looked around. Realization was coming back to
him, and it was not pleasant. Dusty looked at Stella and pointed at
Rand.

“Was he the one yuh meant, Stell?”

Stella stared at Dusty, as if not understanding.

“Yuh said yuh loved one of the Sticky Ropes, Stell,” reminded Dusty.

“--I don’t know,” faltered Stella wearily. “They said they were going to
kill me. He--” pointing at Rand--“was one of them, Dusty.”

“You don’t love him, do yuh?” queried Weary.

“No! Love that man?”

“Well, yuh never can tell about a woman,” said Weary.

Shirey lifted himself to a half-sitting position and looked around. He
was very weak, and his hands groped around, as though searching for
something.

“Whatcha want, Snag?” asked Dusty.

Snag looked up vacantly at him.

“M’ gun,” he whispered, “I’ve gotta shoot Bonn. Palo was m’ bunkie.”

“You got him, Snag,” said Dusty. “You got Bonn.”

Snag mouthed a jumble of words--

“Dreamin’--I--shot--Bonn--where’s--gun?”

“You got him,” repeated Dusty.

“Yeah?” Shirey grinned vacantly. “Did I? Good!”

Shirey’s eyes lifted and focused on Stella. The vacant look had vanished
now and he seemed to recognize them.

“H’lo, li’l girl! Sheriff! End of the Sticky Ropes, eh? We’re all here,
gentlemen. Li’l girl, we lied to you. Your pa ain’t one of us. We lied
to git yuh to come here peaceable!”

Then Dusty knew that Stella had not been protecting a sweetheart, but
her father; and a warm glow came over him, in spite of his dripping,
clammy clothes.

“Yo’re wise in comin’ clean about it, Snag,” he stated.

Snag looked up at Dusty.

“Ol’ Snag ain’t goin’ t’ hang, sheriff. Got m’ ticket to a hotter place
than Big Bear. Ain’t goin’ t’ be no cold Winter f’r ol’ Snag. Bonn was
the killer, and he’s gone. Ol’ Rand paid the freight. Do the best yuh
can with the rest. We thought yuh was a fool, sheriff; but you’re alive
and we--ain’t. S’--long.”

The practical Weary picked up a coil of rope and proceeded to hog-tie
the captives, but Dusty had seemed to have lost interest in the Sticky
Ropes. He was looking at Stella, and for once in his life he was not
making faces at her.

“I--I wasn’t no hero, Stell,” he said softly. “I thought yuh loved young
Rand, but I didn’t go away and give yuh up.”

Stella looked into the light of the fire for a moment and back into
Dusty’s serious face, as she took him by both hands.

“No, you wasn’t a hero, Dusty. You’re just a ---- of a sheriff--and
that’s hero enough for me!”

“Aw-w-w-w!” growled Weary disgustedly, but nobody heard him, except
Wharton and Rand, and they were not interested.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 20, 1923 issue of
Adventure magazine.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78715 ***