of one who was seething with rage. Entirely unprepared, the ruffian rocked on his heels and then crashed to the ground; he might have been kicked by a mule. Standing over him, pale with passion, the boy had a last word:
'Mention that young lady again in my hearin' an' I'll tear yu apart.' He turned to walk away and in an instant the stricken man was on his feet, his gun out, pointing at the broad back so carelessly presented to him. A movement of his finger andthe murderous missile would have sped, but a warning voice intervened:
'I wouldn't,' it said. Though the words were quietly spoken, they conveyed a threat which the killer dared not ignore.
The man with the gun stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw a group of citizens interestedly watching the fracas, and apart from them, a black-haired cowboy, lounging easily against a post some ten paces distant, a six- shooter levelled from his right hip. A tiny tendril of smoke curled up from the cigarette between his lips.
'Face me,' came the order. 'I never shoot a fella in the back unless I has to.'
'What right you got to interfere?' the other blustered, but he made the movement.
There was no mirth in the cowboy's grin. 'Yu've got yore gun out an' it's just about as far from yu to me as from me to you,' he said. 'If yu wanta argue ...' The bully had no such wish; he did not like the look of this third party in the affair. Though he was little older in years than the other cowboy, there was an air of cool confidence about this one which spoke of experience. He did not know it, but the spectators were in agreement with him; this sinister, granite-faced figure was entirely different from the smiling, good-humoured puncher they had swapped jokes with in the saloon.
'I ain't got no quarrel with you,' the squat man evaded. 'No, I'm facin' yu,' came the swift retort, and then, 'Well, we aim to please.' The other cowboy had turned and watched the scene with an interest natural in one who had escaped death by the merest chance. He now came striding back. The black-haired one grinned at him.
'Pull yore gun an' stand right here,' he said, pointing to the post he had been using as a support, and when this had been done, he stepped aside. 'All set, Angel-face,' he went on. 'Here's the fella yo're honin' to slay. Fly at it.' This invitation seemed no more to the liking of the short man than the previous one. He shrugged his enormous shoulders and managed to achieve a heavy sneer.
'Play-actin',' he said. 'Dime novel stuff. I'll argue with both o' you when yo're growed up.' He put away the drawn gun, thrust his hands into his pockets, and slouched away. The black-haired cowboy's voice followed him:
'Yella right through, like I figured,' he said, and shook a finger at the man he had assisted. 'Don't yu give him another chance like that.'
'It was shorely a fool thing to do,' the other confessed. 'I reckon I have to thank yu--'
'Yu don't have to do no such thing,' was the smiling reply. 'Let's get acquainted. I'm Jim Green. I live mostly under my hat, an' I ain't got a friend in the world.'
'I hate to call yu a liar so soon but I know of one, anyways,' the boy grinned, and shoved out a fist. 'I'm Gerry Mason. All my relations died off on me, I got tired punchin' cows, an' here I am. I guessed I'd grab me a gold-mine.'
'Why, that's one good idea,' Green responded, as if the notion was entirely novel. 'I'm foot-loose my own self just now.'
'We might double-team it,' Mason said eagerly, 'that is, if--'
'Yu decide to go,' the other helped him out. He had divined the possible obstacle which had quelled the boy's enthusiasm --a certain slim, black-robed form. 'There ain't no need for haste. We'll have to fix things.' The statement brought a look of relief to Mason's face, and Green smiled understandingly; if the girl remained in Wayside, he would lose his new friend, for he himself must be moving on.
Chapter II
When Mary Ducane, having removed the dust of travel from her person, came downstairs again, she found a meal and Paul Lesurge awaiting her in the parlour of the hotel. His eyes regarded the healthy freshness of her with discreet approval.
'You must be in need of something, and as I am a fellow guest here, I hope you won't mind if we eat together,' he said.
Mary did not mind, and said so. She was feeling very lonely in this far-off spot on the plains, and the stranger's solicitude for her comfort was welcome. He was, too, a new experience, for though her life had been spent among rough, uncultured people, she had all a woman's appetite for the niceties of existence. And Lesurge was far too astute to allow the least suggestion of gallantry to appear.
They spoke seldom until the business of feeding was over,but he gathered that she was alone in the world save for an uncle whom she had come to Wayside to find. Lesurge started to his feet.
'But how stupid of me to bring you here,' he cried. 'We should have gone in search of your relative at once.' His contrition was so very evident that any lurking doubt the girl may have entertained, vanished, and she hastened to explain the situation.
'My uncle does not know I am coming, and may even have left Wayside. He was my father's brother and came West long before I was born. Dad used to say, 'Phil was the restless one.''
'But you have seen him?' Lesurge asked.
Mary shook her head. 'He never visited us, and for years we heard nothing. Then, about seven months ago, a letter came, saying that he had discovered a rich mine and asking my father to join him. Dad decided to do so, sold our farm, and then ...' Her voice broke and her eyes became misty.
Lesurge nodded sympathetically. 'I understand,' he murmured. 'He died.'
'He was--murdered,' she said bitterly. 'Stabbed in the dark on his way home; it was known he had sold his land--poor Dad could never keep a secret--and I suppose they were after the money.'
'I hope they didn't get it.'
'No. It was in the bank, but when everything was settled up there was little more than enough to bring me here, so'--she smiled bravely--'I shall have to find my uncle, or some work. You have not heard the name?'
'No, but I have been here but a little while myself, and there are outlying settlers I may not have come in contact with. I will make inquiries at once. Of course, it is possible he is not using his own name, but we won't anticipate difficulty.' He saw a tiny crease in her smooth forehead, and asked, 'Anything else troubling you?'
'I was wondering if I left Mister Mason rather abruptly--the young cowboy who was holding my bag,' she explained. 'He was very kind during the journey, he protected me ...'
'Protected you?' Lesurge repeated.
'Yes, the other passenger was--unpleasant,' she replied. 'I should not like to be deemed ungrateful.'
'I'll put that right,' he assured her. 'Naturally you were a little flustered. These cowboys have pretty tough hides, anyway. As for the other fellow, I'll have a word with him too; you won't have any more trouble in that quarter, I promise 'ou ' He cut short her thanks with a wave of the hand. Then, raving suggested that it would be best to keep her affairs to herself for the present, he went out to find Philip Ducane. A ew paces from the hotel he met the 'unpleasant' passenger, vho greeted him with a scowl; he had been at the bottle again. 'Hell of a time yore friends have to wait for you when here's a skirt around,' he growled.
Lesurge surveyed him with cool contempt. 'If you weren't trunk you wouldn't have the presumption to refer to me as a friend,' he said bitingly. 'Get this; you are merely a tool [ use, and throw away if it proves inefficient. I learn that you nade yourself `unpleasant' to Miss Ducane on the way here. [f that happens again, I shall make myself `unpleasant' to (ou' A sudden thought occurred to him. 'You haven't told anyone here that you know me?' He saw the lie on the other's lip. 'You would. Of all the blundering blockheads ... I suppose the whole town knows?'
'I on'y mentioned it to that cowpunch fella, Mason, what come with us,' the man grumbled.
'And he'll pass it on to the girl, of course,' Lesurge said disgustedly. 'Well, we must deal with him. Didn't you tell me that Miss Ducane's father--died?'
'So he did,' Fagan replied.
'Yes, a man is apt to with four inches of steel in his throat,' Paul said acidly, and caught the furtive look of fear in the other's eyes. That was good; he liked to have a hold over those he employed; it lessened the risk.
'She talked then,' Fagan ventured.
'Quite a lot,' was the meaning reply. 'What was her father like?'
'Short, dark fella, goin' grey, with a scar over the left eye--claimed he got it fallin' off a fence. No snap to him, but middlin' chattersome. Farmed a quarter section but I don't reckon he made much.'
