The Hash Knife Outfit E-Book

Zane Grey

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The sequel to „The Drift Fence”, featuring the continuing story of Jim Traft and Molly Dunn and introducing Jim’s sister Glorianna, who finds more than she bargained for in the West. When Gloriana Traft came to Arizona to visit her tenderfoot brother Jim, trouble was rampant in Yellow Jacket. The notorious Hash Knife Outfit of rustlers and gunmen were stealing the ranchers’ cattle and terrorizing the beautiful valley. Guns would blaze and blood would run hot and red before Goloriana and her brother became true and valiant citizens of the frontier West. Zane Grey paints a pretty picture of the land, the men and women who settled it, and they danger of cowboy life.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 1

It was a rainy November night down on the Cottonwood. The wind complained in the pines outside the cabin and whispered under the eaves. A fine cold mist blew in the open chinks between the logs. But the ruddy cedar fire in the huge stone fireplace gave the interior of the cabin a comfortable aspect and shone brightly upon the inmates scattered around. A coffee-pot steamed on some coals; browned biscuits showed in an open iron oven; and thick slices of beef mingled a savory odor with the smoke. The men, however, were busy on pipes and cigarettes, evidently having finished supper.

“Reckon this storm looks like an early winter,” remarked Jed Stone, leader of the outfit. He stood to one side of the fire, a fine, lithe figure of a man, still a cowboy, despite his forty years and more of hard Arizona life. His profile, sharp in the fire glow, was strong and clean, in no way hinting of the evil repute that had long recorded him an outlaw. When he turned to pick up a burning ember for his pipe the bright blaze shone on light, rather scant hair, on light eyes, and a striking face devoid of beard.

“Wal, early or late, I never seen no bad weather down hyar,” replied a man back in the shadow.

“Huh! Much you know about the Mogollons. I’ve seen a hell of a winter right here,” spoke up another, in a deep chesty voice. “An’ I’ll be trackin’ somethin’ beside hoofs in a couple of days.” This from the hunter Anderson, known to his comrades as Tracks, who had lived longer than any of the others in this wild section, seemed to strengthen Stone’s intimation. Anderson was a serious man, long matured, as showed in the white in his black beard. He had big deep eyes which reflected the fire-light.

“I’ll bet we don’t get holed up yet awhile,” interposed Carr, the gambler of the outfit. He was a grey-faced, grey-haired man of fifty. They called him Stoneface.

“What do you say, Pecos?” inquired the leader of a long-limbed, sandy- mustached Texan who sat propped against the wall, directly opposite the fire.

“Me?… Shore I don’t think nothin’ aboot it,” drawled Pecos.

“We might winter down in the Sierra Ancas,” said Stone, reflectively.

“Boss, somethin’s been eatin’ you ever since we had thet fight over Traft’s drift fence,” spoke up Croak Malloy, from his seat against some packs. His voice had a peculiar croaking quality, but that was certainly not wholly the reason for his significant nickname. He was the deadliest of this notorious outfit, so long a thorn in the flesh of the cattlemen whose stock ranged the Mogollons.

“I ain’t denyin’ it,” replied Stone.

“An’ why for?” complained the croaker, his crooked evil face shining in the red light. “We got off without a couple of scratches, an’ we crippled them two Diamond riders. Didn’t we lay low the last nine miles of thet fence?”

“Croak, I happen to know old Jim Traft. I rode for him twenty years ago,” answered Stone, seriously.

“Jed, as I see it, this drift fence of Traft’s has split the range. An’ there’ll be hell to pay,” snapped the other.

“Do you reckon it means another Pleasant Valley War? That was only seven years ago–thereabouts. An’ the bad blood still rankles.”

Croak Malloy’s reply was rendered indistinguishable by hot arguments of Carr and Anderson. But the little rider’s appearance seemed silently convincing. He was a small misshapen man of uncertain age, with pale eyes of fire set unevenly in a crooked face, and he looked the deadliness by which he had long been known to the range.

Just then the sodden beat of hoofs sounded outside.

“Ha! that will be Madden an’ Sonora,” said Stone, with satisfaction, and he strode to the door to call out. The answer was reassuring. He returned to the fire and held his palms to the heat. Then he turned and put his hands behind his back.

Presently a man entered the cabin, carrying a heavy pack, which he deposited against the wall, then approached the fire, to remove dripping sombrero and coat. This action disclosed the swarthy face and beady bright eyes of the Mexican whom Stone had called Sonora.

“Glad you’re back, Sonora,” said the leader, heartily. “How about things?”

“No good,” replied Sonora, and when he shook his head drops of rain water sputtered in the fire.

“Ahuh!” ejaculated Stone, and he leaned against the stone chimney, back in the shadow.

The other rider came in, breathing heavily under another pack, which he let fall with a thud, and approached the fire, smelling of rain and horses and the woods. He appeared to be a nondescript sort of man. Water ran off him in little streams. He hung his coat on a peg in the chimney, but did not remove his battered black sombrero from which the rain drops dripped.

“Wal, boss, me an’ Sonora got here,” he said, cheerfully.

“So I see,” returned Stone, quietly.

“Bad up on top. Snowin’ hard, but reckon it won’t last long. Too wet.”

“What you want to bet it won’t last?” queried Carr.

Madden laughed, and knelt before the fire, his huge spurs prodding his hips.

“Lemme eat,” he said. “It’ll be the first bite since yestiddy mornin’.”

The youngest of the group, a cowboy in garb and gait, rose to put more wood on the fire. It blazed up brightly. He had a weak, handsome face, with viciousness written all over it, yet strangely out of place among these hardened visages. No one need have been told why he was there.

The returned members of the outfit did not desist from appeasing their appetites until all the drink, bread, and beef were gone.

“Cleaned the platter,” ejaculated Madden. “Gosh! there’s nothin’ like a hunk of juicy salty meat when you’re starved… An’ here’s a real cigar for everybody. Nice an’ dry, too.” He tossed them to eager hands, and taking up a blazing stick he lighted one for himself, his dark face and steaming sombrero bent over the fire. Then he sat back, puffed a huge cloud of white smoke, and exclaimed: “Aghh!… Now, boss, shoot.”

Stone kicked a box nearer the fire and sat down upon it. Then from a shadowed corner limped a stalwart man, scarred of face and evil of eye, with a sheriff’s badge glittering like a star on the front of his vest. Some of the others edged closer. All except Croak Malloy evinced keen eagerness. Nothing mattered to this little outlaw.

“Maddy, did you fetch all the supplies?” asked Stone.

“Yep. An’ kept them dry, too. There’s four more packs out in the shed. The tobacco, whisky, shells–all that particular stuffs is in the pack Sonora fetched in. An’ I’m here to state I don’t want to pack down Cottonwood any more in the snow an’ rain. We couldn’t see a hand before our eyes. An’ just follered the horses.”

“Any trouble at Flag?” went on Stone.

“Nary trouble,” answered Madden, brightly. “All our worryin’ was for nothin’.”

“Ahuh. Then neither of those drift-fence cowboys we shot up died?”

“Nope. Frost was around with a crutch. An’ Hump Stevens will live, so they told me.”

“How did Jim Traft take the layin’ down of nine miles of his drift fence?” “Which Jim Traft do you mean?”

“The old man, you fool. Who’d ever count that tenderfoot of a nephew?”

“Wal, boss, I reckon you’ll have to count him. For he’s shore countin’ in Flag… Of course I could only get round-about gossip in the saloons an’ stores, you know. But we can gamble on it. That nine-mile drop of Traft’s drift fence didn’t make him bat an eye, though they told me it riled young Jim somethin’ fierce. Jed, the old cattle king is goin’ through with that drift fence, an’ with more’n that, which I’ll tell you presently. As I got it the drift fence is comin’ more to favor with cattlemen as time goes on. Bambridge is the only big rancher against it, an’ shore you know why he is. But the fence ain’t the only thing talked about… Boss, the Cibeque outfit is busted.”

“No!–You don’t say?” ejaculated Stone.

“Shore is. Most owin’ to that cowpuncher Hack Jocelyn who left the Diamond outfit an’ throwed in with the Cibeque. That split the Cibeque. It seems Jocelyn lost his head over that little Dunn girl, Molly, sister to Slinger Dunn. You’ve seen her, Jed, at West Fork.”

“Yes. Prettiest kid in the country.”

“Wal, Jocelyn was after her hard, an’ he double-crossed the Haverlys an’ Slinger Dunn by tryin’ to play both ends against the middle. He hatched a low- down deal, if I ever knowed one. But it fell through. He got away with the girl Molly, however, an’ thet precipitated hell. Slinger quit the Cibeque, trailed them to a cabin in the woods. Back of Tobe’s Well somewhere. Must have been the very cabin Anderson put up there years ago. Wal, Jocelyn an’ the rest of the Cibeque had kidnapped young Jim Traft for ransom. But Jocelyn meant to collect the ransom an’ then murder the boy. The Haverlys wasn’t in on this, so the story goes. Anyway, things worked to a hot pitch at this cabin. Jocelyn had a drink too many, they say, an’ wanted to drag the little girl Molly off ‘n the woods. An’ she, like what you’d expect of Slinger Dunn’s sister, raised hell. Jocelyn tried to shoot young Jim. An’ she fought him–bit him like a wildcat. Wal, Slinger bobbed up, Injun as he is, an’ killed Jocelyn. Then he had it out with the Haverlys, killin’ both of them. He was terrible shot up himself. They fetched him to Flag. But he’ll live.”

“I’m dod-blasted glad, though there ain’t any love lost between me an’ Slinger,” said Stone, forcibly. “No wonder Flag wasn’t excited over our little brush with Stevens an’ Frost.”

“Wal, thet’s all of thet news,” went on Madden, importantly. “Some more will interest you-all. Bambridge lost his case against Traft. He had no case at all, accordin’ to the court. It seems Traft got this Yellow Jacket Ranch an’ range from Blodgett, years ago. Bambridge didn’t even know the deeds were on record in Flag. He was hoppin’ mad, they said, an’ he an’ Traft had it hot an’ heavy after the court proceedin’s. Traft jest about accused Bambridge of shady cattle deals down here. Bambridge threw a gun, but somebody knocked it out of his hand. Wal, thet riled the old cattle king. What do you think he said, boss? I got it from a feller I know, who was in the courtroom.”

“Maddy, I’ll bet it was a heap,” replied Stone, wagging his head.

“Heap! Reckon you hit it. Traft swore he’d run Bambridge off the Arizona ranges. What’s more, he made a present of this Yellow Jacket Ranch, which Bambridge an’ you reckoned you owned yourselves, to his nephew, young Jim, an’–but guess who?”

“I’m not guessin’. Out with it,” rejoined Stone, hardily.

“No one less than Slinger Dunn,” announced Madden, with the triumphant tone of the sensation-lover.

“What?” bellowed Stone.

“I told you, boss. Old Traft gave this ranch an’ range to young Jim an’ Slinger–half an’ half. Providin’ thet Slinger throwed in with the Diamond outfit an’ helped them clean up Yellow Jacket.”

“Haw! Haw!” croaked Malloy, with vicious humor.

“Slinger Dunn an’ the Diamond!” exclaimed Stone, incredulously. Evidently it was a most astounding circumstance, and one fraught with bewildering possibilities.

“Thet’s it, boss, an’ they’re ridin’ down here after Thanksgivin’,” ended Madden, and took a long pull on his cigar.

Stone once more leaned in the shadow, his dim profile bent toward the fire. Madden stretched himself, boots to the heat, and gave himself over to the enjoyment of his cigar. All except the leader puffed white clouds of smoke which rose to catch the draught and waft through the chinks between the logs.

“What do you make of it, boss?” finally queried Anderson.

Jed Stone vouchsafed no reply.

“Humph!” grunted the hunter. “Wal, Frank, you’re the green hand in this outfit. What you make of Maddy’s news?”

The cowboy stirred and sat up. “I reckon it can’t be done,” he replied.

“What can’t?”

“Cleanin’ up Yellow Jacket.”

The hunter took a long draw at his cigar and expelled a volume of smoke, while he thoughtfully stroked his black beard.

“Whar you from, Frank?”

“Born in Arizonie.”

“An’ you say thet? Wal… Reckon it ain’t no wonder you ended up with the Hash Knife outfit,” said Anderson, reflectively. Then he turned his attention to the Mexican, who sat nearest. “Sonora, you been herdin’ sheep for years on this range?”

“Si, señor.”

“You’ve seen a heap of men shot?”

“Many men, señor.”

“Did you talk to sheep-herders in Flag?”

“Si. All say mucho malo. Old Traft bad medicine. If he start job he do job.”

Whereupon Tracks Anderson, warming as to a trail, set upon the long- limbed, sandy-mustached Texan. “Pecos, what was you when you rode thet river you’re named fer?”

“Me? Much the same as I am now,” drawled the rustler, with an easy laugh. “Only I wasn’t ridin’ in such good safe company.”

“Safe, huh? Wal, thet’s a compliment to Jed an’ the Hash Knife. But is it sense?… To my way of thinkin’ this–drift fence has spelled a change fer Arizona ranges. There’s a mind behind that idee. It’s big. It throws the sunlight on trails thet have been dim.”

Croak Malloy did not wait to be interrogated. He spat as he emitted a cloud of smoke, which hid his strange visage.

“If you ask me I’ll tell you Maddy’s talk is jest town talk,” he croaked. “I’ve heard the same fer ten years. An’ Yellow Jacket is wilder today than it ever was. There’s more cattle runnin’ than then. More rustlers in the woods. More crooked ranchers. An’ one like Bambridge wasn’t ever heard when I first rode into the Tonto… An’ what’s a bunch of slick-ridin’ cowboys to us? I’ll kill this young Traft, an’ Sonora can do fer Slinger Dunn. Thet’ll be the last of the Diamond.”

“Very pretty, Croak. It might be done, easy enough, if we take the first step. I ain’t aimin’ to class thet wild Diamond outfit with the Hash Knife. It ain’t no fair fight. Boys ag’in’ men. An’ this is shore allowin’ fer Slinger Dunn an’ thet Prentiss fellar.”

“Tracks,” spoke up Pecos, dryly, “you’re plumb fergettin’ there’s a Texan in the Diamond. Lonestar Holliday. An’ you can bet the Texas I come from wouldn’t be ashamed of him.”

“Humph!–Lang, you swear you come honest by thet sheriff badge,” went on the hunter, in a grim humor. “Let’s hear from you.”

“There ain’t no law but might in the Mogollons an’ never will be in our day,” replied the ex-sheriff.

“Kirreck,” snapped Anderson. “Thet’s what I’m drivin’ at. Our day may be damn good an’ short.”

“Aw, hell! Tracks, you need some licker,” croaked Malloy. “Let’s open the pack an’ have some.”

“No,” came from Stone with sharp suddenness, showing how intent he was on the colloquy.

“Wal, it narrows down to Stoneface,” continued Anderson, imperturbably. “But seein’ he’s a gambler, you can’t ever get straight from him.”

“Tracks, I’ll bet you them gold wheels you’ll be hibernatin’ fer keeps when spring comes,” said Carr, clinking gold coins in his palms.

“Quién sabe? But I won’t bet you, Stoneface. You get hunches from the air, an’ Gawd only knows you might be communicatin’ with the dead.”

A silence ensued, during which the hunter gazed with questioning eyes at the shadowed leader, but he did not voice his thought. He returned diligently to the cigar that appeared to be hard to smoke. The rain pattered on the roof; the wind moaned under the eaves; beyond the log wall horses munched their feed; the fire sputtered. And presently Jed Stone broke the silence.

“Men, I rode on the first Hash Knife outfit, twenty years ago,” he began. “An’ Arizona never had a finer bunch of riders. Since then I’ve rode in all the outfits. Some had good men an’ bad men at the same time. Thet Texas outfit in the early eighties gave the Hash Knife its bad name. Daggs, Colter, an’ the rest didn’t live long, but their fame did. Yet they wasn’t any worse than the cattlemen and sheepmen who fought thet war. I’ve never had a real honest job since.”

Stone paused to take a long pull on his cigar.

“An’ thet fetches me down to this day an’ the Hash Knife outfit here,” he went on. “There’s a heap of difference between fact and rumor. Old Jim Traft knows we’re rustlin’ his stock, but he can’t prove it–yet. Bambridge knows we are stealin’ cattle, but he can’t prove it because he’s crooked himself. An’ same with lesser cattlemen hereabouts. If I do say it myself, I’ve run this outfit pretty slick. We’ve got a few thousand head of cattle wearin’ our brand. Most of which we jest roped out on the range an’ branded. We knowed the mothers of these calves had Traft’s brand or some other than ours. But no posse or court can ever prove thet onless they ketch us in the act. We’re shore too old hands now to be ketched, at least at the brandin’ game. But… an’, men, here’s the hell of it, we can’t go on in the old comfortable way if Traft sends thet Diamond outfit down here. Yellow Jacket belongs to him. An’ don’t you overlook this Diamond bunch if Slinger Dunn is on it. Reckon thet’ll have to be proved tome. Slinger is even more of an Indian than a backwoodsman. I know him well. We used to hunt together. He’s run a lot in the woods with Apaches. An’ no outfit would be safe while he prowled around with a rifle. I’m tellin’ you if Slinger would ambush us –shoot us from cover like an Indian, he’d kill every damn one of us. But I’ll gamble Slinger wouldn’t never do thet kind of fightin’. An’ we want to bear thet in mind if it comes to a clash between the Diamond an’ the Hash Knife.”

“If,” exploded Anderson, as the leader paused. “There ain’t no ifs. Any kind of reasonin’ would show you thet Traft has long had in mind workin’ up this Yellow Jacket. It’ll run ten thousand head, easy, an’ shore will be a fine ranch.”

“Wal, then, we got to figger close. Let me make a few more points an’ then I’ll put it to a vote. I wish I hadn’t always done thet. For I reckon I see clear here… We’ve had more’n one string to our bow these five years. An’ if we wasn’t a wasteful outfit we’d all be heeled right now. Bambridge has been playin’ a high hand lately. How many thousand unbranded calves an’ yearlin’s we’ve drove over to him I can’t guess. But shore a lot. Anyway, he’s figgerin’ to leave Arizona. Thet’s my hunch. An’ he’ll likely try to drive some big deals before he goes. If he does you can bet he’ll leave the Hash Knife to bear the brunt. Traft has come out in the open. He’s on to Bambridge. There’s no slicker cowman on the range than Traft’s man, Ring Locke. They’ll put the Diamond down here, not only to watch us, but Bambridge too. An’ while we’re at it let’s give this young Jim Traft the benefit of a doubt. They say he’s a chip off the old block. Wal, it’d jest be a hell of a mistake for Croak to kill thet young feller. Old Traft would rake Arizona from the Little Colorado to the Superstitions. It jest won’t do. Slinger Dunn, yes, an’ any of the rest of the outfit. But not young Jim… Wal, I reckon it’d be wise fer us to make one more drive, sell to Bambridge an’ clear out pronto.”

“My Gawd!” croaked Malloy, in utter amaze.

“Boss, do I understand you to hint you’d leave the range your Hash Knife has run fer twenty years?” demanded Stoneface Carr.

“Men, I read the signs of the times,” replied the leader, briefly and not without heat. “I’ll put it up to you one by one… Anderson, shall we pull up stakes fer a new range?”

“I reckon so. It ain’t the way of a Hash Knife outfit. But I advise it fer thet very reason.”

Sonora, the sheep-herder, leaned significantly and briefly to Stone’s side. But the gambler was stone cold to the plan. Malloy only croaked a profane and scornful refusal. The others came out flat with derisive or affronted objections.

“Wal, you needn’t blow my head off,” declared Stone, in like tone. “If you do there shore won’t be a hell of a lot of brains left in this outfit… It’s settled. The Hash Knife stays until we are run out or wiped out.”

CHAPTER 2

That same stormy night in early November, when the members of the Hash Knife gang had their fateful colloquy in the old log cabin on the Yellow Jacket range, Jim Traft sat with his nephew in the spacious living-room of the big ranch-house on the edge of Flagerstown.

It was a bright warm room, doubly cosy owing to the whine of wind outside and the patter of sleet on the window panes. Old Traft had a fondness for lamps with rosy globes, and the roaring fire in the great stone fireplace attested to his years on the open range. A sleek wolf-hound lay on the rug. Traft occupied an armchair that looked as ancient as the hills, and he sat back with a contented smile on his fine weather-beaten face, occasionally to puff his pipe.

“Dog-gone-it, Jim, this is somethin’ like home,” he said. “You look so good to me these days. An’ you’ve come through a Westerner… An’ the old house isn’t lonesome any more.”

He nodded his grey head toward the far end of the room, where Molly Dunn curled in a big chair, her pretty golden-brown head bent over a book. Opposite Molly on the other side of the table sat Mrs. Dunn, with eager expectant look of enchantment, as one who wanted to keep on dreaming.

Young Jim laughed. It looked more than something like home to him, and seldom was there a moment his eyes did not return to that brown head of Molly Dunn.

“Shore is, Uncle,” he drawled, in the lazy voice he affected on occasions. “You wouldn’t think we’re only a few weeks past that bloody fight… Gosh! when I think!… Uncle, I’ve told you a hundred times how Molly saved my life. It seems like a dream… Well, I’m back home–for this is home, Uncle. No work for weeks! No bossing that terrible bunch of cowboys! You so pleased with me–though for the life of me I can’t see why. Molly here for the winter to go to school–and and then to be my wife next spring … And Slinger Dunn getting well of those awful bullet wounds so fast… It’s just too good to be true.”

“Ahuh. I savvy how you feel, son,” replied the old rancher. “It does seem that out here in the West the hard knocks and trials make the softer side of life–home an’ folks–an’ the girl of your heart–so much dearer an’ sweeter. It ought to make you keen as a whip to beat the West –to stack cunnin’ an’ nerve against the wild life of the range, an’ come through alive. I did. An’, Jim, if I’d been a drinkin’, roarin’ cowpuncher I’d never have lasted, an’ you wouldn’t be here tonight, stealin’ looks at your little Western girl.”

“Oh, Uncle, that’s the–the hell of it!” exclaimed Jim. “I’m crucified when I realize. Those weeks building the drift fence were great. Such fun–such misery! Then that fight at the cabin! Oh, Lord! I could have torn Hack Jocelyn to pieces with my hands. Then when Molly was fighting him for possession of his gun–hanging to him like grim death– with her teeth, mind you–when he lifted and swung her and beat her –I was an abject groveling wretch, paralyzed with horror… Then when Slinger leaped past me round the cabin, as I sat there tied and helpless, and he yelled like an Indian at Jocelyn… I thrill and shiver now, and my heart stops… Only since I’ve been home do I realize what you mean about the West. It’s wonderful, it’s glorious, but terrible, too.”

“You’ve had your eye teeth cut, son,” said Traft, grimly. “Now you must face the thing–you must fight. I’ve fought for forty years. An’ it will still be years more before the range is free of the outlaw, the rustler, the crooked cattleman, the thieving cowboy.”

“Uncle Jim,” called Molly, plaintively, “please hush up aboot the bad West. I want to study an’ I cain’t help hearin’.”

“Wal, wal, Molly,” laughed Traft, in mild surprise, “reckon I thought you was wrapped up in that school book.”

“An’, Jim–shore the West’s not as wicked as Uncle makes out,” went on Molly. “He wants you to be another Curly Prentiss–or even like Slinger.”

“Ha, ha!” roared the rancher, rubbing his hands. “That’s funny from Molly Dunn. My dear, if you hadn’t had all the Western qualities I’m tryin’ to inspire in Jim, where would he be now?”

Even across the room Jim saw her sweet face blanch and her big dark eyes dilate; and these evidences shot an exquisite pleasure and happiness through him.

“Uncle, I’ll answer that,” he said. “I’d be in the Garden of Eden, eating peaches.”

“Maybe you would, Jim Traft,” retorted Molly. “A little more bossin’ the Diamond outfit an’ your chances for the Garden of Eden are shore slim.”

Later, when the ladies had retired, Ring Locke came in with his quiet step and his intent eye. Since Jim’s return from the disastrous failure of the drift fence (so he considered it, in contrast to his uncle’s opinion) and the fight at the cabin below Cottonwood, he had seemed to be in the good graces of this Westerner, Ring Locke, a fact he hugged with great satisfaction. Locke was a keen, strong, and efficient superintendent of the old cattleman’s vast interests.

“Some mail an’ some news,” he announced, handing a packet of letters to Traft.

“How’s the weather, Ring?” asked the rancher.

“Clearin’, I reckon we won’t see any green round Flag till spring.”

“Early winter, eh? Wal, we got here first… Son, letter for you from home–two. An’ in a lady’s fancy hand. You better look out Molly doesn’t see them… Ring, help yourself to a cigar an’ set down.”

Jim stared at the first letter. “By gosh! Gloriana has written me at last. It’s coming Christmas, the little devil… And the other from Mother. Fine.”

“Glory must be growed into quite a girl by now,” remarked his uncle.

“Quite? Uncle, she’s altogether,” declaring Jim with force.

“Wal, I hardly remember her, ‘cept as a pretty little kid with curls an’ big eyes. Favored your mother. She shore wasn’t a Traft.”

Locke lit a cigar. “Some of the Hash Knife outfit been in town,” he announced, calmly.

Jim forgot to open his letters. Old Traft bit at his cigar. “Nerve of ‘em! Who was it, Ring?”

“Madden and a greaser whose name I’ve forgot, if I ever knowed it. Reckon there was another of the gang in town, but I couldn’t find out who. They bought a lot of supplies an’ left Thursday. I went around to all the stores an’ saloons. Dug up what I could. It wasn’t a lot, but then again it ‘pears interestin’. One in particular. Curly Prentiss swears he saw Madden comin’ out of Bambridge’s, after dark Wednesday, he says. But Curly has had a ruction with his gurl, an’ he’s been drinkin’, I’m sorry to say. That cowboy would be the grandest fellar, if he didn’t drink. Still, drunk or no, Curly has an eye, an’ I reckon he did see Madden.”

“Funny, his comin’ out of Bambridge’s,” growled Traft, and the bright blue eyes narrowed.

“Awful funny,” agreed Locke, in a dry tone, which acquainted the listening Jim with the fact that the circumstance was most decidedly not funny. “Anyway, it started me off. An’ the upshot of my nosin’ around was to find out that the Hash Knife crowd are at Yellow Jacket an’ all of a sudden oncommon interested in you an’ young Jim, an’ the Diamond, an’ Slinger Dunn.”

“Ahuh. Wal, they’ll be a heap more so by spring,” replied Traft. “Funny about Bambridge.”

“The Hash Knife have friends in Flag, you bet, an’ more’n we’d ever guess. Shore, nobody knows our business, onless the cowboys have talked. I’m afraid Bud an’ Curly have bragged. They do when they get to town an’ guzzle a bit. Madden did darn little drinkin’ an’ none ‘cept when he was treated. Another funny thing. He bought all the forty-five calibre shells Babbitt’s had in stock. An’ a heap of the same kind, along with some forty-fours for rifles, at Davis’s. He bought hardware, too. Some new guns. An’ enough grub to feed an outfit for a year.”

“Winter supplies, I reckon. An’ mebbe the Hash Knife are in for another war, like the one it started in eighty-two. Ha, ha!… But it ain’t so funny, after all.”

“It shore doesn’t look like peaceful ranchin’,” drawled Locke.

“Damn these low-down outfits, anyway,” growled the rancher. “I fought them when I rode the range years ago, an’ now I’m fightin’ them still. Locke, we’ll be runnin’ eighty thousand head of stock in a year or two.”

“Eighty thousand!–Then you can afford to lose some,” replied Locke.

“Humph. I couldn’t lose a calf’s ear to those thievin’ outfits without gettin’ sore. They’ve kept me poor.”

“Uncle, we appear to have the necessities of life around the ranch. Nice warm fires, and some luxury,” remarked Jim, humorously.

“Just you wait,” retorted his uncle. “Just you wait! You’ll be a darn sight worse than me, pronto.”

“Locke, who is this Madden?” asked Jim, quietly, with change of tone.

“One of Jed Stone’s gang. Hard ridin’, hard drinkin’ and shootin’ hombre. Come up from the border a few years ago. The murder of Wilson, a rancher out of Holbrook, was laid to Madden. But that was only suspicion. In this country you have to catch a man at anythin’ to prove it. Personally, though, I’d take a shot at Madden an’ ask questions afterward.”

“Tough outfit, Uncle tells me,” went on Jim, reflectively.

“Boy, the Cibeque was a summer zephyr to thet Hash Knife outfit. Stone used to be a square-shootin’ cowboy. Rode fer your uncle once. That was before my day here. He’s outlawed now, with crimes on his head. An intelligent, dangerous man. He’s got a Texas gun-fighter in his outfit. Pecos something or other, an’ I reckon he’s ‘most as bad as any of the killers out of Texas. Croak Malloy, though, is Stone’s worst an’ meanest hand. Then, there’s Lang an’ Anderson, who’ve been with him for years.”

“Is Slinger Dunn the equal of any of these men?” queried Jim.

“Equal? I reckon. Yes, he’s ahaid of them in some ways,” replied Locke, thoughtfully. “Slinger could beat any one of them to a gun, unless mebbe this Pecos feller. But Slinger is young an’ he has no crimes on his haid. That makes a difference. None of this Hash Knife outfit could be arrested. They hang together an’ you bet they’ll die with their boots on.”

“Then we’re in for another fight?” mused Jim, and though he sustained a wonderful thrill–cold as a chill–he did not like the prospect.

“Traft,” said Locke, turning to the rancher, “strikes me queer that Stone hangs on in this part of Arizona. He’s no fool. He shore knows he can’t last for ever. If the Diamond doesn’t drive him out it’ll break up his outfit. An’ other riders will keep on his track.”

“Wal, you know, Stone will never be run out of anywhere. But he’s an Arizonian, an’ this range is home, even if it has outlawed him. He’s bitter an’ hard, which is natural enough. Stone ought to be a rich cattleman now. I –I feel sorry for him, an’ that’s why I’ve let Yellow Jacket alone.”

Jim thought his uncle spoke rather feelingly.

“Wouldn’t it be better to drive off what stock’s left there an’ let the land go?” went on Locke.

“Better? Humph! It can’t be done. We’ve got to organize against these rustlin’ outlaws or they’ll grow bolder an’ ruin us. Take that case over in New Mexico when a big cattleman–crooked of course–hired Billy the Kid an’ his outfit to steal cattle, an’ he sold them to the Government. That deal lasted for years. Everybody knew it, except the Government officials. Wal, I’m inclined to think there’s some ranchin’ man backing’ Stone.”

“Ahuh. I know how you incline, Traft,” returned Locke, dryly. “An’ it’s likely to get us into trouble.”

“Wal, if Bambridge is buyin’ in our stock we ought to find it out,” said Traft, testily.

“Suppose your suspicions reach Bambridge’s ear? He might be honest. In any case he’s liable to shoot you. An’ I say this Yellow Jacket isn’t worth the risk.”

“Ring, I don’t like the man. I suspect him. We’ve clashed from the first. He was hoppin’ mad when he found out I owned Yellow Jacket an’ had the range rights there. It’ll be interestin’ to see what move he makes.”

“Like watchin’ a game of checkers,” rejoined Locke, with a laugh. “All right, boss. I’m bound to admit you’ve made some sharp guesses in my days with you. Reckon I’ll go to bed. Good-night.”

In the silence that succeeded after he had gone, Jim slowly opened the letters he had been idly holding.

“Uncle, I’m afraid Locke is against this Yellow Jacket deal, especially the Bambridge angle.”

“Locke is cautious. He hates this sort of thing as much as I do. But what can we do? I take it as my duty to rid Arizona of this particular outfit, an’ I’m goin’ to do it.”

“Then it isn’t a personal grudge against Bambridge?”

“Not at all. I shore hope we find out my suspicions are wrong. An’ I’m relyin’ on your Slinger Dunn to find out. He’s the man we need, Jim. I shore appreciate your gettin’ hold of him.”

Jim spread out one of the letters on his knee and read it.

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, blankly. “Son, I hope you’ve no bad news. Who’s the letter from?”

“Mother,” replied Jim, still blankly.

“Wal?”

“Uncle, what do you think? Mother is sending my sister, Gloriana, out here to stay with us a while… Doctor’s orders. Says Gloriana has a weak lung and must live a year or more in a high dry climate… By gosh! Glory is on her way right now!”

“Wal, wal! I’m shore sorry, Jim. But Arizona will cure her.”

“Cure!… Cure nothing!” snorted Jim. “Gloriana has no more lung trouble than I have. She’s the healthiest girl alive. It’s just a trick to get her out here.”

“Wal, I reckon there ain’t no need of tricks. We’ll be darn glad to have her, won’t we?”

“Uncle, you don’t understand,” replied Jim, in despair.

“Tell me, then.”

“Gloriana will upset the ranch, and break the Diamond and drive me crazy.”

“Haw, haw, haw!”

“It’s no laughing matter.”

“But, Jim, you’ve been away from home ‘most a year. Your sister could have failed in health in much less time.”

“That’s so… Oh, I hope not… Of course, Uncle, I’ll be glad to have her, if she’s really sick. But…”

“Son, don’t you care for this little sister?”

“Gosh, Uncle, I love her! That’s the worst of it. I can’t help but love her. Everybody loves her, in spite of the fact she’s a perfect devil.”

“Humph! How old is Gloriana?”

“She’s eighteen. No, nearly nineteen.”

“Wal, the Trafts were all good-lookin’. How does she stack up?”

“Glory is the prettiest girl you ever saw in all your life.”

“Shore then it’ll be fine to have her,” replied the rancher. “An’ I’ll tell you what, Jim. When we once get her out heah we’ll keep her.”

“What?” queried Jim, weakly.

“We’ll never let her go back again. We’ll marry her to some fine Westerner.”

Jim felt his turn to laugh. “Ha, ha, ha!… Uncle, there’s not enough men in Arizona to marry Glory. And I’m afraid not one she’d wipe her feet on.”

“Sort of stuck up, eh? Thet ain’t a Traft trait.”

“I wouldn’t say she was stuck up. But she’s certainly no plain everyday Traft, like you and I, or Dad or Mother. She’s not conceited, either. Glory is a puzzle. She changes each moon. I wonder what she’s like now… Jerusalem! Suppose she doesn’t take to Molly!”

“See heah, young man,” spoke up Traft, gruffly. “Mebbe it’ll be the other way round. Molly mightn’t take to her.”

“Molly? Why, Uncle, that adorable child would love anybody, if she had half a chance.”

“Ahuh. Wal, that accounts fer her lovin’ you… Jim, it’ll work out all right. Remember your first tenderfoot days. Would you go back East now to live?”

“Gosh, no!”

“Wal, the West will do the same for Gloriana, if she has any red blood. It’ll go tough, until she’s broke in. An’ if she’s a high-steppin’ Easterner, it’ll be all the tougher. But she must have real stuff in her. She’s a Traft, for all you say.”

“Gloriana May takes after Mother’s side of the family, and some of them are awful.”

“She’s got to have some Traft in her. An’ we’ll gamble on that. For my part, I’m glad she’s comin’. I hope she burns up the ranch. I’ve been so long without fun and excitement and devilry around heah that I could stand a heap.”

“Uncle Jim, you’re going to get your desire,” exploded Jim, dramatically. “You’ll see these cowboys walk Spanish and perform like tame bears with rings in their noses. You’ll see the work on the ranch go to smash. The round-ups will be a circus. As for dances–holy smoke! every one of them will be a war!”

“Wal, I’ll be gol-darned if I wouldn’t like the girl all the more,” declared Traft, stoutly. “These cowpunchers make me awful sick with their love affairs. Any girl will upset them. An’ if Glory is all you say my Gawd, but I’ll enjoy it!… Goodnight, son.”

Jim slid down in his chair and eyed the fire. “Gosh! It’s a good bet Uncle Jim will be apple-pie for Glory. But if she really loves him, why, I reckon, I’ll be glad. And I might get along with her, in a pinch–But there’s Molly… Heigho! I’d better dig into Glory’s letter.”

He held it to the dying glow of the fire and read: