'It is no use, Luce,' she said sadly. 'That would only mean more trouble. We belong in different camps, and this must be the end of our--friendship. We both have to be loyal to our own kin.'
The finality with which she spoke silenced him. Miserably he watched as she wheeled her pony and rode away, the proud little head bent, and--though he did not know this--the blue eyes well-nigh blind with unshed tears. When the trees had hidden her, a bitter laugh broke from his lips.
'Loyal to our own kin,' he repeated harshly. 'If the Burdettes shoot men in the back they're no kin o' mine, an' that's somethin' they've gotta learn mighty soon.'
With a grim look on his young face he stepped into his saddle and loped off in the direction of the Circle B ranch.
No sooner was he out of sight than a man rose from behind a clump of undergrowth on the outskirts of the glade. He was tall, nearing the middle thirties in age, with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair, eyes, and moustache, added to perfectly-formed features, produced a face at which most women would look more than once. Even his own sex had to admit that Kingley Burdette was 'a handsome devil,' and this Mephistophelian attractiveness was accompanied by a haughty, insolent bearing which made his first name singularly appropriate. Just now his thin lips were set in a saturnine sneer.
'So that's the way of it, huh?' he almost hissed. 'Readyto round on his own folk for the sake of a skirt, but mebbe he won't get the chance.' His dark eyes narrowed. 'Damn him! He's got ahead o' me. Who'd 'a' thought 'o him shinin' up to that Purdie gal?--not that she ain't worth it.' He pondered for a moment, and then an ugly smile lit his lowering face. 'I reckon that'll fix yu, my friend, fix yu good an' plenty,' he muttered.
He too mounted and trotted leisurely away, his mind full of a young, slim girl with curly, honey-coloured hair and wide blue eyes, who now would one day own the C P ranch.
Sudden spent the evening in 'The Lucky Chance.' It was a fair-sized place, with a sanded, boarded floor on which tables and chairs were dotted about, and a long bar which faced the swing-doors. Light was afforded by three big kerosene lamps slung from the roof, and a few gaudy chromos formed the only decoration save for a large tarnished mirror immediately facing the entrance. Behind the har stood the proprietor, Mick Magee, whose squat, turned-up nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed his nationality before he opened his mouth. A genial man until roused, and then he was a tornado. Tough as the frequenters of 'The Lucky Chance' were, few of them had any desire to tangle with the sturdy Irishman when he 'went on the prod.'
Just now he was all smiles, for business was brisk; most of the tables were occupied and the faro, monte, and other games were being well supported. The crowd presented the usual medley to be found in any cow town at that time, save that there were more miners, oldish men for the most part, with craggy, weather-scarred features, bent backs, and fingers calloused by constant contact with pick and shovel. Lured on by the will-o'-the-wisp of a 'big strike,' they spent their days grubbing in the earth for gold and their nights in dissipating what little they found. There were those among them who remembered the hectic days of '49, others who had sneaked into the Black Hills, dodging the troops sent by the Government to keep them out, and risking a horrible death by torture at the hands of the Indians; days of feverish toil, with a rifle always within reach, and the knowledge that at any moment they might hear the dread war-whoop. They had found fortunes in a day and lost them in a night--and still hoped.
There was a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and an occasional oath as the goddess of chance favoured or flouted a gambler.
Lounging carelessly at one end of the bar, Sudden's eyes were busy, not that the scene was any novelty, but he had come to live amongst these people for a time, and he wanted to know something of them. Presently the proprietor noticed the solitary stranger and spoke to him.
'Would ye be after stayin' wid us, Mister Green?' he asked.
'I'm all undecided,' the puncher told him with a smile. 'I like the look o' the lay-out, but, yu see, my appetite keeps regular hours, an' I gotta work. I had a notion to find me a gold-mine.'
The saloon-keeper regarded him humorously. 'Good for ye,' he replied. 'But take it from me, the best way to look for wan is from the back of a hoss somewan is payin' ye to ride.'
The hint was plain enough, and the man to whom it was given nodded a smiling acquiescence. 'I guess yo're right,' he said. 'As a matter o' fact, I'm seein' Purdie in the mornin'.'
The remark, coming from a stranger, amounted to a question, and the Irishman took it as such. 'A good man, Purdie,' he said. 'His, sort, they don't make 'em no better.' He studied the other furtively for a few moments and decided that he was capable of taking care of himself. Nevertheless, he uttered an indirect warning. 'Chris is takin' the loss of his only boy hard,' he went on. 'I misdoubt it'll mean bad throuble between the C P an' the Circle B, which is the Burdette brand. Easy now, here's a couple of them.'
Through the swing-doors came two men in cowboy trappings, tall, big-boned, dark of hair and brow, with bold, hard faces and insolent, dominant eyes. Though one was a few years the elder, and a veritable giant in build, they were sufficiently alike for their relationship to be obvious. Magee looked uneasy.
'Mart an' Sim Burdette,' he said in an undertone. 'Pretty well primed too, begad.' Then, as he turned to welcome the newcomers, the puncher caught the added words, 'An ugly pair to draw to.'
Through narrowed eyes Sudden watched the brothers swagger up to the bar, and decided that the landlord was right. He noted that each wore only one gun in sight, a heavy Colt's .45, slung below the right hip. Though they were laughing, their eyes were as cold as those of a snake. They greeted the saloon-keeper boisterously and inquired for the marshal. At that moment Slype came in.
'Hey, Slippery, I hear yo're tryin' to pin this Purdie play on the Burdettes,' Mart--the bigger man--said threateningly.
'Yu heard a lie,' the marshal retorted. 'One or two things sorta suggested Luce, but he claims he had nothin' to do with it.'
'Did yu expect he'd own up?' sneered the other. 'An' if he did down Purdie I'll say he done a good job, though it don't even the score. What yu goin' to do about it?'
He glared round the room as though daring anyone present to dispute his callous assertion. The marshal, who knew the challenge was directed chiefly at himself, shrugged his shoulders in a poor assumption of indifference.
'Ain't no call for me to concern m'self,' he replied. 'Like I told Luce, Ol' Man Purdie reckons him an' his outfit can deal with it.'
'Is that so?' Mart growled. 'Wants a fight, does he? Well, that suits us fine, eh, Sim?'
The younger brother laughed. 'Yu betcha,' he agreed.
Slype made a gesture for appearance' sake. 'Now, see here, Mart, a range war ain't goin' to do this yer town no good,' he protested. 'All Chris wants, I reckon, is to find out who bumped off his boy.'
'Bah! He's plastered it on the Burdettes a'ready,' Sim said angrily. 'Awright, we'll let it go as it lays; the Burdettes can take care o' theirselves.'
'An' whose side are yu on, anyways, Slippery?' snapped Mart.
'I represent the law, an' I'm agin both o' yu,' the marshal evaded, a reply which drew an ironic laugh from the brothers. 'Where's King? Left him at Lu Lavigne's, I reckon?'
'Yu reckon pretty good,' Sim replied, adding slyly, 'Why not send if yu want him?'
'I don't,' the officer said hastily. 'I just asked. What about a little game?'
Sudden stayed a while longer, hoping to see the eldest of the Burdettes, but was disappointed. Weldon, the blacksmith, a bluff, bearded giant with whom he got into conversation, explained the marshal's reference to King's whereabouts. He would be at 'The Plaza,' the only real rival establishment to 'The Lucky Chance.' It was owned and run by a woman, who had bought out the former proprietor less than a year before. Save that she was young, attractive, and wise to her business, nothing was known of her.
'Calls herself Mrs. Luisa Lavigne, but no husband ain't showed up yet,' the blacksmith said. 'She's certainly restful to the sight, but I'm layin' she's got Spanish blood in her, an' a temper to match. Soon after she hung out her shingle, a cowboy tries to get fresh with her, an' she slips a knife into him middlin' prompt. No, he didn't die, but it shorely puts a crimp in his affection.
O' course, it don't stop others sufferin' from the same complaint, but it makes 'em careful, an' when King Burdette starts hangin' round, most of 'em loses interest.'
Sudden ventured to ask one direct question, and to his surprise, received an answer.
'If it comes to a fight, I opine Purdie would have most of the town against him?'
