Title: The Drift Fence (1933)
Author: Zane Grey
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Language:  English
Date first posted: August 2008
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Title: The Drift Fence (1933)
Author: Zane Grey





CHAPTER ONE


Molly Dunn sat waiting on the rickety old porch of Enoch Summers' store
in the village of West Fork. For once she was oblivious to the approach
of the lean-faced, long-legged young backwoodsmen who lounged there with
their elders. Molly was sixteen and on the eve of a great adventure. She
had been invited to ride to Flagerstown with the Sees. She had been there
once some years before and the memory had haunted her. In her pocket she
had money to buy new stockings and shoes, which compensated somewhat for
the fact that she carefully kept her feet and ankles hidden under the
bench. She wore her good dress and bonnet, and though not satisfied with
them she was not ashamed.

Andy Stoneham, a tall youth with sallow face and fuzzy beard, edged over
closer and closer.

"Reckon you're orful stuck up this mawnin'," he drawled.

Molly looked at the bullet holes in the wall of the old store. She had
seen them before, and long ago when she was ten she had stuck her finger
in them and wondered about the battle that had been fought there once.

"Goin' up to Flag, huh?"

"Do you think I'd dress up like this for West Fork?" inquired Molly,
loftily.

"Wal, you used to, didn't you? You shore look purty. But I can't see
you've any call to get uppish. I've seen you in thet rig before, haven't
I?"

"I don't remember, Andy."

"Then you've got a darn short memory," replied Andy, bluntly. "Didn't I
take you to the last dance in thet dress?"

"Did you?"

"Wal, I shore did. An' didn't I hug you in it?"

"Did you?" queried Molly, flippantly.

"You bet I did."

"I've forgotten. But I've heard it said you're so big and awkward you
have to hold on to a girl when you dance. Else you'd fall down."

"Wal, how aboot kissin' you, too? On the way to the dance an' drivin'
home?"

"Oh, did you?" retorted Molly, her face hot. Andy's voice carried rather
far. "An' what did I do?"

"Wal, I figger thet you kissed me back an' then slapped my face."

"Andy Stoneham, you're a liar about that first."

"Haw! Haw!...Say, Molly, there's goin' to be a dance next week."

"Where at?"

"Hall's Mill. Come on an' go."

"Andy, I don't like that place," returned Molly, regretfully. "Besides, I
wouldn't go with you, anyway."

"Wal, you shore air gettin' stuck up. An' why not?"

"Because of what you said--about huggin' an' kissin' me."

"What of thet? I did an' you liked it. Aw, you're funny. Haven't all
the boys done the same?"

"They have not," declared Molly. "Who ever said such a thing?"

"I heerd Sam Wise say it. An' Bill Smith laughed, though he didn't say
nothin'."

"So that's the kind of fellows you are!" exclaimed Molly. "Talk about a
girl behind her back?...To kiss an' tell!"

"Wal, at thet we're not so gabby as your cowboy admirers from Pleasant
Valley. Take thet red-headed cowpuncher. Accord-in' to his talk he's a
tall fellar with Burls. He shore had you crazy aboot him."

"He did not," said Molly, hotly.

"Wal, you acted orful queer then. Danced all the time with him. An' three
times walked out under the pines. Aw, I watched you. An' come Saturday
night he was drinkin' heah, an' accordin' to his talk he could have had a
lot more than huggin' an' kissin' from you, if he only got you alone."

"Andy Stoneham!--You let him talk that way aboot me?"

"Wal, why should I care? You've shore been mean to me."

"Why should you, indeed?" replied Molly, coldly, and turned away.

At that juncture a horseman rode up, and his advent not only nterrupted
Molly's argument with her loquacious admirer, but had a decided quieting
effect upon the other occupants of the porch. He was a lean range-rider,
neither young nor old, and he fitted the hard country. His horse showed
the dust and strain of long travel.

"Howdy, Seth," said old Enoch Summers, rubbing his bristled chin and
stepping out. "'Pears like you been humpin' it along. Whar you come
from?"

"Me an' Arch Dunn just rode over from the Diamond," replied the other.

Molly's attention quickened to interest at the mention of her brother.
Seth Haverly was his boon companion and they had been up to something.

"Wal, thar's news stickin' out all over you," drawled Summers. "Reckon
so."

"Git down an' come in. Mebbe a drink wouldn't go bad."

"Nope. I'm goin' home an' get a snack of grub."

One by one the men on the porch joined Summers. The fact that Seth
Haverly did not want a drink, as much as his arrival, interested them.

Haverly had a still brown face and intent light eyes.

"Enoch, you know thet rift fence we been hearin' aboot for the last
year?" he asked.

"Reckon I heerd the talk."

"Wal, it's more'n talk now."

"You don't say?"

"Yep. Me an' Arch rode along it, for ten miles, I figger. Straight as a
bee-line. New three-wire fence, an' barbed at thet!"

"What you say? Barbed!"

"You bet."

Silence greeted Seth's nonchalant affirmative.

"Arch had a hunch aboot this fence goin' up," went on Haverly. "An' in
Flag we found it was a fact."

"Wal, who's buildin' it?"

"Trait."

"Ahuh. He could afford it. Wal, what's his idee?"

"It ain't very flatterin' to West Fork," drawled Seth, with a grin. "We
heerd some things thet'd be hard for you old cattle-nesters to swaller,
if they're true. But me an' Arch only had the word of some idle
cowpunchers. We couldn't get any satisfaction from Traft's outfit. New
foreman. Nephew from Missourie, we heerd. Tenderfoot, but I agree with
Arch, who said he was no fool. Anyway, we asked him polite like: 'Say,
mister, what's the idee of this drift fence?'--An he looked me an' Arch
over an' said, 'What do you suppose the idee is?'"

"Short an' sweet!" ejaculated a man standing beside Summers. "Wal, you
two-bit free-range cattlemen can put thet in your pipes an' smoke it."

Whereupon he strode off the porch and down the road, erect and forceful,
his departure expressive of much.

"Me an' Arch was sure curious aboot this fence," continued Seth. "We rode
out of Flag an' started in where the fence begins. It strikes south into
the timber at Traft's line, an' closes up every draw clear to the
Diamond. At Limestone we hit into Traft's' outfit. They've got the job
half done an' by the time the snow flies thet drift fence will run clear
from Flag to Black Butte."

"Ha! A hundred miles of drift fence!" exclaimed some one.

"Ahuh," nodded Summers, sagely. "An' all the cattle will drift along to
Black Butte an' then driftback again."

Haverly swung his spurred boot back to his stirrup and without another
word rode away.

Molly watched the departing rider as thoughtfully as any of the others on
Summers' porch. This drift fence must be going to have a profound
significance for the few inhabitants along the West Fork of the Cibeque.

Then down the road from the other direction appeared the See buckboard,
sight of which brought Molly bouncing to her feet. To her relief young
John See was not in the vehicle with his parents. John had more prospects
than any of the young men Molly knew, but he also had more than his share
of their demerits. The buckboard rolled to a stop.

"Hop up, Molly," called See, gayly. "We're late an' it ain't no fault of
yours."

"Good mawnin'," returned Molly, brightly, as she climbed to the seat
beside Mrs. See.

"Mornin', lass," replied the rancher's wife. "You look like you could fly
as well as hop."

"Oh, I'm on pins," cried Molly. "I'll never be able to thank you enough."

"Howdy, Caleb," spoke up Summers. "Reckon you've got time to come inside
a minute."

"Mawnin', Enoch," replied See, which greeting included the others
present. "I'm in a hurry."

"Wal, come in anyhow," returned Summers bluntly, and went into the store.

See grumbled a little, as he wound the reins around the brake-handle,
and laboriously got down. He was a heavy man, no longer young. All the
loungers on the porch followed him into the store, but Andy Stoneham
remained in the door, watching Molly. "That lout's makin' sheep eyes at
you, Molly," said Mrs. See.

Molly did not look. "He just said some nasty things to me," she confided.
"Then the fool asked me to go to a dance at Hall's Mill."

"Molly, you're growin' up an' it's time you got some sensible notions,"
said Mrs. See, seriously.

"I'm goin' to Flag," trilled Molly, as if that momentous adventure was
all that mattered.

"Lass, you're a bad combination. You're too pretty an' too crazy. I
reckon it's time to get you a husband."

Molly laughed and blushed. "That's what ma says. But it's funny. I have
to work hard enough now."

Caleb See came stamping out of the store, wiping his beard, sober of face
where he had been merry. Without a word he stepped into the buckboard,
making it lurch, and drove away.

Molly was reminded of the news about the drift fence.

"Mrs. See, while I was waitin' for you Seth Haverly rode up," said Molly.
"He'd just come in from the Diamond with my brother Arch. They'd been to
Flag. An' he was tellin' old Enoch Summers about a fence that was bein'
built, down across the country. A drift fence, he called it. What's a
drift fence?"

While Mrs. See pondered over the query Caleb answered.

"Wal, lass, it's no wonder you ask, seem' we don't have no fences in this
country. On a free range cattle travel all over, accordin' to water an'
grass. Now a drift fence is somethin' that changes a free range. It ain't
free no more. It's a rough country this side of the Diamond. All the
draws head up on top an' run down into the West Fork, an' into the
Cibeque. Water runs down these draws, an' feed is good. Wal, a drift
fence built on top an' runnin' from Flag down country will keep the
cattle on top. They'll drift along an' water down on the other side. Then
they'll drift back."

"Why were they so serious about it?" asked Molly, curiously.

"Isn't a drift fence a good thing?"

"Reckon it is, for Traft an' Blodgett, an' the big cattlemen up Flag way.
But for us folks, who live off the Diamond, it ain't so good."

"Most of us couldn't live much worse," replied Molly, thoughtfully.

"You bet you could, lass. Haven't you always had milk an' beefsteak, an'
shoes to wear?"

"Most always, but not always. Just now I'm walkin' in my bare toes," said
Molly, with a giggle. "If I hadn't saved up money enough to buy stockings
an' shoes I'd never come.

"Molly, you goin' to have a new dress, too," declared Mrs. See. "I didn't
tell you we are goin' to a picnic. Goin' to be a big time in Flag on
Saturday, most like the Fourth."

"Oh, heavenly!" exclaimed Molly, rapturously. "An' to think I almost
didn't come!...Mrs. See, you're awfully kind."

Mr. See went on with something in his mind. "No, Molly, we've been fair
to middlin' prosperous down here in the valley. But this drift fence will
make a difference."

"Caleb, isn't the land owned by the government? Couldn't any man
homestead it?"

"Shore. An' there's the rub. Traft has no right to fence this free range.
But he's a rich, powerful old duffer an' bull-headed as one of his
steers. Who're we down here to go to law? An' where'd we go? Fairfield,
the county seat, is farther away than Flag. It takes time an' money to
travel."

"Oh, dear!" sighed the good woman. "Then it'll mean hard times."

"Wal, Susan, we can stand hard times, an' I reckon come out ahead. But
this drift fence means trouble. It's a slap in the face to every free
ranger in this section. They'll all take it Traft accuses them of
stealin' unbranded stock that drifts down into the draws on the
West Fork."

"Lass, kind of trouble, Uncle Caleb?" queried Molly, soberly. "Lass, do
you remember the Pleasant Valley war over across the mountains in the
Tonto? Let's see, you must have been about six years old. Ten years ago."

"Yes, I remember, mamma wouldn't let me play out of the yard. We lived at
Lunden then. But if I hadn't remembered I'd sure know what that war was.
Papa talks about it yet."

"A huh. Lass, some people say your dad was crippled for sympathy to one
faction in that fight."

"Pa denies it. But he was on the side of the sheepmen. An' that riles my
brother Arch somethin' funny. They never get along. Arch isn't much good,
Uncle Caleb."

"Humph! I'd not say that, for Arch has good parts. But he's much bad, an'
that's no joke...Wal, if Traft's outfit ever finishes their fence--at
least down in the Diamond, it'll be cut. An' as Traft runs a lot of
hard-ridin' an' shootin' cowpunchers, there's shore goin' to be blood
spilled. It takes years sometimes to wear out these feuds. An' we've a
lot of thick-headed hombres in our neck of the woods."

His ominous reasoning had a silencing effect upon his hearers. The women
of that country were pioneers in suffering, and there were many widows
and orphans. Molly thought of her brother Arch. He was only twenty-two,
yet he had killed more than one man, and through many fights, but few of
them bloodless, he had earned a reputation that was no source of pride to
his family. Arch not so long ago had been a nice boy. Lack of work, and
drinking, and roaming the woods with fellows like Seth Haverly, had
ruined him. Now it would grow worse, and that would make it harder for
Molly's crippled father, who had to sit at home and brood.

Molly conceived a resentment against the rich cattleman who could impose
such restrictions and embitter the lives of poor people. And as for
Traft's tenderfoot relative, who had come out from Missouri to run a hard
outfit and build barbed-wire fences, Molly certainly hated him. Funny if
she should meet him! What would he be like? A change from long-legged,
unshaved, ragged boys who smelled of horses would be a relief, even if he
was an enemy. It was unlikely, however, that she should have the luck to
encounter Mr. Traft's nephew from Missouri, which fact would be good luck
for him, at least. Molly would certainly let him know what she thought of
him.

It occurred to her presently that Arch had seen this new foreman of
Traft's and could tell her all about him. How was Arch going to take this
newcomer? Seth Haverly was as easy-going a boy as Arch, but dangerous
when crossed. Molly was prone to spells of depression and she felt the
imminence of one here.

Wherefore, in order to shake off the insidious shadow, she devoted
herself to the ride and to her companion, who needed a little cheering
also.

It had been years since Molly had been so many miles from the village.
She did not remember the road. From her own porch she always had a
wonderful view down the valley and across to the rand upheaval of earth
and rock locally called the Diamond, and atthe rugged black hills to the
south. But now she was riding at a fast trot of a spirited team through a
winding timbered canyon, along the banks of the West Fork. As there was a
gradual down grade, the gray cliff walls grew higher until they were far
above. Only a lone horseman was encountered in all the fifteen miles down
to where the West Fork poured its white torrent into the Cibeque. Here
Mr. See took the main road, which climbed and wound and zigzagged up the
long slope. Molly looked down and back at the wilderness which was her
home. All green and gray, and so big! She could not hate it, somehow. All
her life she had known that kind of country. She had played among the
ferns and the rock, and in the amber water, and under the brown-barked
pines and spruces, where deer and elk and wild turkeys were as common as
the cows she drove from pasture in the dusk. She felt that it would be a
terrible break to sever her from this home of forest and gorge.



CHAPTER TWO


From the head of the Cibeque the road wound through undulating forest
land, heading the deep draws and glens, and gradually ascending to the
zone of cedar and piñon, which marked the edge of the cattle-range.

There had been snow on the ground all winter, which accounted for the
abundance of gramma grass, now beginning to bleach in the early summer
sun. Cattle dotted all the glades and flats and wide silvery meadows; and
toward afternoon, from a ridge top the vast gray-green range spread like
a billowy ocean far as eye could see.

Several ranches were passed at any one of which See would have been
welcome to spend the night, but he kept going all of daylight, and by
night had covered more than half the journey to Flagerstown.

"Wal, wife, we've made Keech's, an' that's good, considerin' our late
start," remarked See, with satisfaction, as he drove into a wide
clearing, the hideousness of which attested to the presence of an old
sawmill. Rude clapboard cabins and fences, not to note the barking dogs,
gave evidence of habitation.

The cabins, however, were more inviting inside, Molly was to learn, and
that the widow Keech was a most kindly and loquacious hostess. She had
two grown daughters, and a son about fourteen years old, an enormously
tall boy who straightway became victim to Molly, a conspicuous fact soon
broadly hinted by his elders.

"So this hyar is John Dunn's girl growed up," said Mrs. Keech. "I knowed
your father well, an' I seen you when you was a big-eyed kid. Now you're
a woman ridin' to Flag."

Molly, however, was not to be led into conversation. This adventure
seemed to her too grand to be joked about. She was keen to listen, and
during the dinner hour heard much about Flagerstown and the fair to begin
there on the morrow, and to end on Saturday with a rodeo. Mrs. See had
not imparted all this marvellous news to Molly and she laughed at the
girl's excitement.

"What you know aboot this drift fence?" finally asked See.

"Caleb, it's a downright fact," replied the widow, forcefully. "Harry has
seen it. Traft's outfit are camped ten miles north of us. They'll pass
here this summer an' be down on your Diamond by the time snow flies."

"Ahuh. So we heerd. But what's your idee aboot it?"

"Wal, Caleb, all things considered, it'll be good for the range. For no
matter what folks say, cattle-rustlin' is not a thing of the past.
Two-bit stealin' of calves is what it really is. But rustlin', for all
that. An' up this way, anyhow, it'll help."

"Are you runnin' any stock?" asked See, thoughtfully.

"Cows, mostly. I send a good deal of butter in to town. Really am gettin'
on better than when we tried to ranch it. I don't have to hire no-good
punchers. People travel the road a lot these days. An' they all stop
hyar. I've run up some little cabins."

"An' that's a good idee," said See.

Molly listened to hear everything, and particularly wanted to learn more
about the young Missouri tenderfoot who had come out West to build fences
for Traft. He would certainly have a miserable existence. And it was most
liable to be short. To Molly's disappointment, no more was said about the
drift fence.

"Wal, we'll rustle off to bed," concluded See. "Mrs. Keech, I'll want to
leave early in the mornin'."

Molly shared one of the new cabins with Mrs. See. It was small, clean,
and smelled fragrantly of dry pine. It had three windows, and that to
Molly was an innovation. She vowed she would have one like it, where she
could have light in the daytime and air at night. She was tired, but not
sleepy. Perhaps the bed was too comfortable. Anyway, Molly lay wide awake
in the dark, wondering what was going to happen to her. This trip to
Flagerstown might be a calamity for her. But she must have it. She must
enjoy every moment of it, no matter what discontent it might engender.

The hounds bayed the wolves and made her shudder. Wolves and coyotes
seldom ranged down in the brakes of the Ciberque. Bears and lions were
plentiful, but Molly had never feared them. Wolves had such a mournful,
blood-curdling howl. And when the hounds answered it they imitated that
note', or else imparted to it something of hunger for the free life their
wild brothers enjoyed.

When at last Molly fell asleep it seemed only a moment until she was
rudely awakened. Mrs. See was up, dressing by lamplight. A gray darkness
showed outside the open window, and the air that blew in on Molly was
cold enough for early fall, down on the West Fork.

But the great day was at hand. She found her voice, and even had a
friendly word for the boy Harry, who certainly made the most of it. When
she came out from breakfast, a clear cold morning, with rosy flush in the
east, greeted her triumphantly, as if to impart that it had some magic in
store.

Harry squeezed Molly's arm, as he helped her into the buckboard, and
said, confidently, "I'll see you at the rodeo."

"Hope so," replied Molly.

Then they were off behind fresh horses and soon into the cedars. Jack
rabbits bounded away, with their ridiculously long ears bobbing erect;
lean gray coyotes watched them roll along; deer trotted out of sight into
thick clumps of brush.

Soon they came to the open top of a ridge and Molly say a gray, dim,
speckled world of range, so immense as to dwarf her sight. The scent from
that vast gulf was intoxicating.

"What's the sweet smell?" she asked.

"Sage, you Cibeque Valley backwoods girl," replied Mrs. See. "Anyone
would think you'd never been out of the timber."

"I haven't, much," laughed Molly. "I've seen an' smelled sage, but it's
so long ago I'd forgotten. Reckon I'd better be pretty careful up at
Flag, Auntie See?"

"Shore you had. But what aboot?"

"Talkin'. I'm so ignorant," sighed Molly.

"You don't need to be dumb. You just think before you speak. You're such
a pretty little mouse that it'll become you. I don't care for gabby
girls, myself. An' I never seen a man who did, if he was in earnest."

Molly was silent enough for the next long stretch. She watched a sunrise
that made her think how beautiful the world was and how little she had
seen, hidden down there in the green brakes. But she reproved herself for
that. From her porch she could see the sun set in the great valley when
the Diamond sheered abruptly down into the Cibeque, and nothing could
have excelled that. And what could be better than the wooded canyons,
deep and gray and green, with their rushing streams? But this open range
took her breath. Here was the cattle country--what Mr. See had called the
free range, and which riders like her brother Arch and Seth Haverly
regarded as their own. Yet was it not a shame to fence that magnificent
rolling land of green? For a moment Molly understood what it meant to be
a range-rider, to have been born on a horse. She sympathized with Arch
and Seth. A barbed-wire fence, no matter how far away, spoiled the
freedom of that cedared grassy land.

"Wal, lass, thar's the smoke of Flag," said Mrs. See. "Way down in the
corner. Long ways yet. But we're shore gettin' there."

"Smoke," said Molly, dreamily. "Are they burnin' brush?"

"Haw! Haw! That smoke comes from the railroad an' the sawmill."

From there on the miles were long, yet interesting, almost every one of
them, with herds of cattle wearing different brands, with ranches along
the road, with the country appearing to spread and grow less cedared. Ten
miles out of Flagerstown Mr. See pointed to a distant ridgetop, across
which a new fence strung, startlingly clear against the sky. It gave
Molly a pang.

"Traft's drift fence, I reckon," said See. "An' I'd almost rather have
this a sheep range!"

For all her poor memory, Molly remembered Flagerstownthe black timbered
mountain above it, the sawmill with its pile of yellow lumber, the gray
cottages on the outskirts, and at last the thrilling long main street,
with buildings that looked wonderful to her. Mr. See remarked with
satisfaction that the time was not much past four o'clock. He drove
straight down this busy thoroughfare. Molly was all eyes.

"Hyar we are," said Mr. See, halting before a pretentious brick building.
"This is the new hotel, Molly. Now, wife, make the best of our good trip
in. Take Molly in the stores. I'll look after the horses, get our rooms,
an' meet you hyar at six o'clock."

Molly leaped out of the buckboard with a grim yet happy realization that
she would not need much longer to be ashamed of her shoes and stockings.

Three hours later, Molly, radiant and laden with bundles, tagged into the
hotel behind Mrs. See, likewise laden, to be greeted vociferously by Mr.
See.

"For the land's sake! Have you robbed a store or been to a fire?--An'
hyar me waitin' for supper!"

"Caleb, it happens seldom in a lifetime," replied his beaming wife. "Help
us pack this outfit to our rooms. Then we'll have supper."

Molly had a room of her own. She had never even seen one like it. Loath
to leave her precious purchases, she lingered until they called her from
the hall. It struck her again how warmly these old people looked at her.
Molly guessed she was a circus and ruefully admitted reason for it.

The dining-room might have been only "fair to middlin'," as Mr. See put
it, but it was the most sumptuous place Molly had ever entered. Sight of
it added to the excitement of the few hours' shopping effectually robbed
her of appetite.

"Wal, I reckon Molly wants a biscuit an' a hunk of venison," remarked Mr.
See.

Molly did not know quite how to take that remark. She became aware, too,
of being noticed by two young men at a nearby table. They were certainly
not cowboys or timber-rangers. Molly was glad to get out and upstairs to
the privacy of her, room.

There she unpacked the numerous bundles and parcels, and laid out her
newly acquired possessions upon the bed. How quickly her little hoard of
money had vanished! Still, it had gone farther than she had anticipated.
Mrs. See had been incredibly generous. A blue print dress, a white dress
with slippers and stockings to match, the prettiest little hat Molly had
ever seen in her life, ribbons and gloves and what not--these had been
the expansion of the good woman's promise.

But not only the pleasure of looking and buying had Molly to think of.
She had met more people than she had ever met before. She had been asked
to serve in one of the booths at the fair. One of the storekeepers had
offered her a position as clerk in his dry-goods department. And
altogether the summing up of this day left Molly staggered with
happiness.

"Oh, dear!" she said. "If it's true it'll spoil me." And she cried a
little before she went to sleep.

Another morning probed deeper into Molly's faculties for enjoyment and
wonder. Mrs. See had relatives and friends in Flagerstown, and they made
much of Molly. Not the least of that morning's interest was a look at Jim
Traft, cattle king of the range. It was in the bank, where Molly and Mrs.
See had visited with Mr. See.

"Thar's the old reprobate," whispered See to Molly. "Jim Traft, who's
fencin' off West Fork from the range!"

Molly stared. She saw a big man in his shirt sleeves and dusty top boots.
He had a shrewd weather-beaten face, hard round the mouth and chin, but
softened somewhat by bright blue eyes that certainly did not miss Molly.
If he had not been Jim Traft it would have been quite possible to like
him.

As they turned to go out he hailed See.

"Hey, don't I know you?"

"Well, I reckon I know you, Traft," returned See, not over-civilly. "I'm
Caleb See."

"Shore. I never forget faces. You live down in the Cibeque. Glad to meet
you again. If you're not in a hurry I'd like to ask you some questions
about your neck of the woods.

"Glad to accommodate you, Traft," returned See, and then he indicated his
companions. "Meet my wife...An' this is our little friend, Molly Dunn.
Her first visit to Flag since she was a kid."

Traft shook hands with Mrs. See, and likewise Molly. He was quaint and
genial, and his keen eyes approved of Molly.

"Wal, wal! I'm shore glad to meet you, young lady," he said. "Molly Dunn
of the Cibeque. I think I used to know your father. An' this is your
first visit to Flag in a long time?"

"Yes, sir. It seems a whole lifetime," replied Molly.

When Molly got outside again she exclaimed, breathlessly: "Oh, Mrs. See,
he looked right through me!...I don't want his pity...But I'm afraid the
Dunns of the Cibeque have a bad name."

"Reckon they have, Molly dear," rejoined Mrs. See, practically. "But so
far as you are concerned it can be lived down."

"But, Mrs. See--I'd have to stick to dad an' Arch," said Molly, suddenly
confronted with a lamentable fact.

"Shore. In a way you've got to. I wouldn't think much of anyone who
couldn't stand by her own kin."

Not until afternoon on the ride out to the fair-grounds did Molly quite
forget Jim Traft's look and the ignominy of the Dunns. But once arrived
there she quite lost her own identity. This girl in blue at whom
everybody stared was some other person. Crowdsof people, girls in gay
apparel, cowboys in full regalia, Indians in picturesque attire, horses,
horses, horses, and prize cattle, and every kind of a vehicle Molly had
ever heard of, appeared to move before her eyes.

Quite by magic, it seemed, she found herself separated from the smiling
Mrs. See and conducted to a gaily decorated booth. There she was
introduced to a girl about her own age, with whom she was to share the
fascinating work of serving the public with sandwiches and coffee.
Fortunately for Molly, her partner was nice and friendly, and certainly
gave no indication that she had ever heard of the Dunns of West Fork.

Under her amiable instruction Molly, who was nothing if not expert at
waiting at table, acquitted herself creditably. But she could not get
used to the marvellous gown she had on, and was in a panic for fear she
might get a stain upon it. She did not, however, have so much work that
she could not see what was going on, and presently she was having a
perfectly wonderful time.

Once she served three cowboys. They were hardly a new species to Molly.
Nevertheless, she had not seen such brilliant scarves and fancy belts.
She noticed, too, that these young men, like Arch and Seth, packed guns
in their belts, a custom she had hardly expected to find at a fair. One
of them made eyes at Molly.

After a while they came back, when Molly's partner had left, and if ever
Molly had seen the devil in the eyes of a youth she saw it in one of
these customers. Still, he was not bad-looking and Molly could not help
liking him.

"Miss--Miss--What'd you say your name was?" he asked as he straddled the
bench before the counter.

"I didn't say," replied Molly.

"Oh, ex--cuse me. My mistake," he returned, crestfallen at the subdued
glee of his comrades. "Have you any pop?"

"No," replied Molly.

"Or ginger ale?"

Molly shook her head.

"Not any pink lemonade?"

"Only coffee an' sandwiches an' cake."

"Cake? Well, give us cake an' coffee," ordered the cowboy. She served
them swiftly and discreetly, deftly avoiding the bold hand that
sought to include her fingers as she passed a cup. "Do you live
here?" he asked presently.

"You know quite well I'm a stranger in Flag, else you wouldn't be so
impertinent," returned Molly severely.

"Aw!" He subsided with that exclamation. And his comrades proceeded to
enjoy themselves at his expense. Molly's keen ears lost nothing of the
banter. They were just brimful of fun. Evidently the bold one enjoyed
something of a reputation as a lady-killer, and had at last met defeat.
Presently, as he could not get Molly to notice him, and grew tired of
listening to his friends, he threw some silver on the counter and said,
loftily, "Keep the change, Little Snowflake." Then he strode away, and
after a few moments the others followed.

From this time Molly was kept busy, and only gradually did it dawn upon
her that a string of cowboys kept coming and going, for the very obvious
reason of getting a look at her. More than once she heard the name
Snowflake. Still, none of them were rude. Manifestly they had taken her
for a guest of some prominent family in the town, and a lady of quality.
Molly enjoyed it hugely, though she had more than one melancholy
reservation that it might have been different if they had guessed she was
only one of the Dunns of the Cibeque.

Soon she was relieved by the young lady, Miss Price, who shared the booth
with her.

"You've got the boys guessing," said this smiling worthy. "They've nagged
me to death. I don't know them all, though. Just keep it up."

"I--I don't do anythin' but wait on them," gasped Molly.

"That's it. Guess they think you're cold when you're only shy," went on
Miss Price. "But you can have a heap of fun. Keep on freezing them.
Tomorrow night you'll have the time of your life."

"Tomorrow night?" faltered Molly.

"Sure. Big dance after the rodeo. Didn't my mother tell you? Anyway,
you're going with us."

"I--I hadn't heard. It's terrible kind of you. But I really couldn't go.
I'm such a stranger. An' if they--they think--"

"You dear kid! You are going. Mrs. See promised mother."

Molly thrillingly resigned herself to the unknown. The afternoon ended
all too soon, and she rode back to town, babbling to the pleased Mrs. See
about the adventure she was having. That night they were out to dine with
relatives of Mrs. See. No other young person was present and Molly had
the relief of being comparatively unnoticed. These serious older people
talked about the affairs of the town and the range, all of which found
lodgment in Molly's mind.



CHAPTER THREE


It was Saturday afternoon and the rodeo had just begun, which accounted
for the deserted appearance of the grounds adjacent. Molly had remained
longer than was really necessary. Mrs. See would be waiting for her at
the stand. She was about to leave when she saw that she was to have a
last customer.

A young man, in overalls and heavy boots, got off a dusty horse and
approached the booth. He asked for something to eat and drink. Apparently
he took no notice of Molly. His face wore a troubled look.

Of all the young men Molly had waited upon in two days, this was the
first one who had not looked at her twice, and the only one who had not
appeared gay or bold or pleasant. Molly felt a little pique and secondly
more than a little curiosity.

He might have been twenty-two or -three years old and evidently was not a
cowboy. Molly judged that he would have been fair-skinned if he had not
been so sunburnt. His nose had begun to peel, but these demerits did not
exactly keep him from being handsome. Presently he laid his sombrero on
the counter, which act disclosed light wavy hair, and a broad brow marred
by deep furrows.

He struck Molly just about right, and considering her vast experience
during these two days, she imagined she was a connoisseur in young men.
He slowly drank the last of his coffee, and looking up, met Molly's
glance. Then she knew he had not seen her before. He had gray eyes full
of shadows.

"What'd you do if you were just about licked?" he queried suddenly.

"Sir?" exclaimed Molly.

He repeated the question, this time more deliberately, as if now he
weighed it.

"I--I'd get up an' fight some more," declared Molly, surprised into
genuine sincerity.

He smiled. Then something beside surprise happened to Molly. "You would?
Suppose then you got licked sure?"

"It wouldn't make no difference," replied Molly, at last forgetting to
watch her speech. And she smiled back at him.

He saw her really then as a girl, and not as any individual who might
propound a personal point of view. Leaning his elbows on the counter, he
regarded her with interest verging upon admiration.

"Very well, I'll take your hunch. I'll not quit. If they lick me--I
should say when they lick me, I'll get up and fight some more."

His words were severe, his purpose almost grim, yet Molly realized the
best compliment she ever had received was being paid her.

"I never saw you before," he went on.

"That isn't my fault," replied Molly, demurely, with level gaze on him.
What a nice face he had!

"But you don't live in Flag," he protested.

"No indeed."

"Where then?"

"I'm from the Cibeque."

"Cibeque. Is that a town or a ranch or what?"

"It's a valley."

"Never heard of it. How far?"

"Two days' ride."

"Just here on a visit?" continued the young man, and it was manifest that
every word carried him farther into interest.

"Yes. We leave in the mawnin'," said Molly, and sighed. Would she ever
come back to Flagerstown? And if so, could it ever be so wonderful?

"That's a long while yet," he returned, and smiled again, with a meaning
which made Molly's heart jump. "I haven't heard, but of course there'll
be a dance tonight. And you'll be going?"

Molly nodded. She had begun to be conscious of confusing sensations.

"I'll bet every blame cowboy at this rodeo has a dance with you," he
declared, jealously.

"Not quite."

He gave her a long gaze that began in doubt and ended with trust. Molly
felt that he knew every last thing in the world about her and she wanted
the earth to open and swallow her.

"I don't care for these town dances," he said. "But I'm going to this
one--if it's true you're not engaged for every dance."

"To tell the truth I--I haven't one single dance yet," she replied.

"Well! Then your best fellow isn't here?"

"He doesn't happen to exist," said Molly, wistfully. Like all the others,
he had taken her for somebody, and if he knew she was only Molly Dunn of
West Fork he would not be so nice.

"Listen. This is a serious matter," he rejoined, gravely. "Young ladies
aren't always to be believed."

"I wouldn't lie to anyone," retorted Molly.

"Honest! You haven't a best fellow?"

"I haven't any fellow," replied Molly, blushing rosily. "I'm only
sixteen. Do you think me as old as Methuselah?"

"Your age hadn't occurred to me. But I'd have taken you for eighteen,
anyhow. It really doesn't matter...Have you been in Flag lately?"

"Not for years. I was a little girl."

"Will you dance with me tonight?" he asked, without any pretence.

"Yes," replied Molly, equally sincerely.

"How many times?"

"I--I don't know about that. You see, I'm not used to city dances."

"Oh, it'd be quite proper, if that worries you. You see I might be taken
for your best fellow. I'd sure like, that...Would you?"

"It'd not be terribly disagreeable to me," said Molly, archly, and after
a roguish glance she looked away.

But he responded to that differently from what she might have expected.
"Thank you," he rejoined, and stood up, with his gray eyes alight. "Save
some dances for me. Good-bye, Miss Cibeque."

He strode away and led his horse in the direction of the corrals. Molly
stood there tingling, to be disturbed by the arrival of Mrs. See.

"I had one last customer," said Molly, as if apologizing for the delay.

"Child, everythin' closed at one. The rodeo is on," returned Mrs. See.
"Hurry now, but don't forget the cash. We'll turn that over to Mrs.
Price...You've been a success, Molly. An' I'm tickled."

They hurried into the crowded stand, where someone had kept seats for
them; and straightway Molly became absorbed in her first rodeo. After
that, time meant nothing. The horse-races left her weak and quite husky,
for she yelled in unison with everybody else present. The staid Mrs. See
hit a fat gentleman on the head with her umbrella, and that was only a
minor indiscretion observed by Molly.

Then came exhibition trick riding by experts of the range. Molly could
ride a horse herself and she knew what good horsemanship included, but
this riding went far beyond anything she could have imagined. One rider,
bareback, rode at full speed, and he slipped all over his horse, even
underneath. But that appeared less wonderful than the splendid rider who
rode two race-horses, standing with one foot on the bare back of each.
Molly thrilled to her toes at that performance.

The roping of calves was not new to her, though she had never believed
such swift time possible. The roping of two-year-olds was a sterner game.
Next after that came the riding of bucking bronchos. In any horse country
there are bound to be some mean horses, and Molly imagined she had seen a
few. But she had not even known what a mean horse was like. There was a
black devil of a mustang with rolling white eyes that simply made the
cold chills run over Molly. Buck! He went six feet into the air, doubled
up, and came down stiff-legged. And he threw three successive riders. Yet
how these lean, supple, round-limbed, small-hipped cowboys could ride!
They stuck on like burrs. But it was dangerous sport. Many were thrown.
One red-headed fellow had a horse fall back on him. Another rolled clear
over with his horse and still came up in the saddle. At this the crowd
roared. Molly saw another boy carried off the field, but she had not
observed what had happened to him. When that whirling, dusty, snorting,
and yelling mêlée ended it was none too soon for Molly.

"Bulldoggin' steers next," said Mr. See, consulting his programme.

"Goodness! Do they chase them with bulldogs?" ejaculated Molly, in amaze.

See laughed heartily. "Wal, thet's a good one."

"Caleb, this is Molly's first rodeo," reproved his wife, though it was
plain the girl's remark had tickled her.

Molly was soon to learn more. A wicked wide-horned steer was let loose,
and a cowboy, superbly mounted, came tearing down the field, to drive the
steer furiously, catch up with it, and then to dive out of his saddle. He
alighted on the neck of the steer, and swinging down by the horns he
tumbled it head over heels, and rolled over with it. Molly screamed. But
the cowboy came out of the dust unhurt and victorious, for there he sat
on the head of the steer, holding it down.

"There! What do you think of that for a cowboy?" exclaimed See, turning
to Molly.

"He's wonderful. But he's crazy. Who ever heard of such a thing?"
returned Molly, feelingly.

"Molly's right," agreed Mrs. See. "I think this bulldoggin' sport is
brutal. Where's the sense in it?"

"Ain't none. But shore takes a slick rider to do it," said her husband.

"A cowboy once told me he didn't have an unbroken bone in his body. Now I
can see why," commented Molly.

Nevertheless, though this style of riding, and downing a steer like a
bulldog, made Molly cold and sick, she could not help watching it
through. She would certainly have something to tell Arch Dunn.
Fortunately, none of the riders were seriously hurt during this most
perilous test of horsemanship and hardihood. And the rest of the
programme allowed Molly to recover.

"Wal, lass, an' how'd you like it?" asked Mr. See.

"I've had the most wonderful time in all my life," dreamily replied
Molly.

"With the best yet to come," added Mrs. See. "This is all very well for
the men, but it's the dance where a girl shines."

With that remark there came flashing back to Molly the strange thoughts
and sensations roused by her last customer at the booth. Ought she not
tell Mrs. See about this young man? Molly was inherently honest and she
knew she should, but she was also in conflict with feelings new to her,
and most confusing. She would wait. What would Mrs. See and Mrs. Price
think of her if they knew she had promised dances to a stranger who had
not even told her his name? That omission had not even occurred to Molly
until now. All during the service at the booth she had been most careful
of her tongue, and then the very last young man had made her forget
herself and what was due her hostesses. Molly could not understand it. He
had sort of carried her away. Still, he had not been bold like some of
the cowboys, or flirtatious like others. At least she did not think so.
But then she might have been wrong. The trouble was he had surprised her
into liking him. No doubt of that! Who was he and what had troubled him
and how had he been about licked, as he called it? Would it be possible
for any young fellow to be so clever and so deceitful as to make up all
that? Molly was startled. She had known boys to do queer tricks. But she
loyally defended this one who had found her weak. He was as honest as he
was nice.

Here Molly got down to the point where he had become so undisguisedly
interested in the fact that she did not have a best fellow. There had
been a soft, almost mischievous light in his gray eyes. Could he have
meant that he would like to be her best fellow? Molly burned within and
without. The tumultuous fact was that he could be her only fellow, if he
wanted to be. And she was ashamed and shocked to confess it. What had
good Mrs. See brought upon her?

This perturbing state of mind got side-tracked again at the hotel, from
which there was a general exodus of ranchers who lived near town. Molly
was thrown in contact with women whom the Sees knew. And at dinner they
sat with friends, so that Molly was not able to think for herself, until
she got to her room. There anticipation and delight assailed her again,
into which crept a dread of what she knew not.

Then she spread the white gown and accessories out on the bed, to revel
in them, and forget the proximity of catastrophe. The following hour was
one of exultation and dismay combined. She fixed her hair this way and
that, never satisfied. It was an apparition which stared wide-eyed at her
from the mirror. Who was this girl? Her arms and shoulders were bare. She
could not get over the feeling of being still undressed.

When Mrs. See came in, to exclaim in raptures over her, then Molly's last
vestige of sense went into eclipse. She needed to be scolded and reminded
that she was only Molly Dunn of the Cibeque, instead of being lauded to
the skies, and told not one of the society girls at St. Louis, where Mrs.
See had once been, could hold a candle to her.

"Upon your haid be it!" murmured Molly, tragically.

And so they went out to the dance, which was held in the town-hall a few
blocks from the hotel. They walked, and Molly trod on air. Never in her
life had she felt anything like her sensations when she walked through
the crowd before the hall, between lines of men and women, children,
Indians, and then at the entrance, before a phalanx of polished-faced
cowboys. Whatever happened, she would have that to remember.

Inside there was a goodly assembly, among whom were Mrs. Price, her
daughter Ellen, and an awkward son about Molly's age. They at once
appropriated Molly, and this perhaps was the time of greatest strain for
her. It was scarcely necessary, however, for Molly to remember Mrs. See's
injunctions. She scarcely had a voice at all. Fortunately, she was too
little and dainty to be clumsy, and shyness only added to her charm.

There was a good deal of standing around, talking and waiting, with
introductions in order, while slowly the hall filled comfortably. Then
the music began, and it was not a fiddle sawed by a backwoodsman, but
real music, and Molly could have danced in leaden boots.

Waltzes and square dances, with the former in large proportion, were to
be the programme. Molly's first partner was the Price boy, who could not
dance very well, but that did not spoil it for her. It developed that
intermissions were frequent, but brief. The young people clamoured to
dance. They would let the old folk sit and look on and talk. Molly had
the next dance with a friend of Ellen's, a young man of the town, very
pleasant and attentive, and a good dancer. And the third with Mr. Price
himself, who declared he would allow nothing to prevent him having a
dance with Molly. She enjoyed it, too, for he was light on his feet and
full of fun.

All this while, which seemed interminable despite her enjoyment, Molly
knew there was something amiss. The dance had really begun and she was
there. Everywhere she turned she met smiles and admiring glances. They
bewildered her. Yet she was keen to note that this was no wild,
continuous, stamping log-cabin dance. Hilarity prevailed, but not
boisterousness. She wondered if there would be any drinking and fights. A
dance without these would be new to Molly.

Then, after the fourth, when she was standing with a group near the
entrance of the hall, she saw Him. She felt herself tremble. He wore
black and looked tall and slim. His eager eyes, dark with excitement,
swept the hall. Molly knew what they were searching for. She had never
wanted anything so badly as for him to see her, yet she was afraid. He
did see her. His smile and bow came before he had time to look her over.
Then Molly's cup grew perilously full. But what would he do? She was
standing with Ellen Price and her friends. Suppose this stranger would
present himself! Molly thought she might pretend to have forgotten his
name; then if he had any sense he could save the situation for her. To
her relief, however, he did not approach.

The music burst forth again and another partner claimed Molly. But even
in the whirling throng she did not lose sight of this young man whom she
had promised dances. Now and then as she turned she saw him leaning
against the wall. Met his dark glance! It followed her everywhere. He did
not dance. He did not mingle with the crowd. During the next intermission
she saw that he was noticed by girls, who whispered to one another, and
by cowboys who gave him rather contemptuous looks. Both actions struck
Molly singularly. In some sense he seemed an outsider or else he did not
choose to make himself agreeable. The meaning of feminine glances sent
his way was not lost upon Molly. And when she, too, dared to glance his
way, to find him watching her, she would quickly avert her eyes. She
realized that he hopefully and reasonably expected her to give him an
opportunity.

At the end of the next number, which Molly had with young Price, she
claimed to be a little tired and wanted to sit down. They found a vacant
place, where they conversed for the brief interval.

"Shall I take you across to mother?" asked young Price.

"No, thanks. I'll wait here for my next partner," replied Molly.
graciously.

"Excuse me, then," he returned, and left her.

Molly hoped her stranger would be quick. But she had scarcely prepared
herself for his sudden arrival.

"Is this mine?" he asked, bending over her eagerly.

"Yes," murmured Molly, rising.

Then he whirled her into the throng. His presence did not quite make her
oblivious to his strong arm, his light step, his perfect time. But
instantly Molly realized she did not need to help this young man learn
his steps.

"I was afraid you'd forgotten me," he said, pressing her hand. "Don't
talk," returned Molly.

He laughed and obeyed her. Molly's head came about to his shoulder and
she just escaped contact with it. Not that she wished to! She felt that
her face must be burning and she would have liked to hide it there. She
did not seem to be making any effort to dance. Yet she was whirling,
swaying, gliding around among dancers who looked vague and dim. All the
threatened feelings accumulated during the last two days took possession
of her now.

The music ceased when they were at the farther end of the hall. "Come
Let's get out before some of them grab you," he said. "I must talk to
you."



CHAPTER FOUR


He led her out through a corridor to a long porch, high up over a garden.
It appeared deserted and shadowy. There was moonlight at the corner and
just at the edge of it a bench. He found a seat for her there.

"You look perfectly lovely," he said, expelling a deep breath, as if in
relief. "I just didn't know you."

"You--you don't know me, anyhow," returned Molly, not knowing what to
say.

"Nor you me. But at first I thought you did. It sure was jolly. To think
I almost didn't ride to town!"

"That would have been terrible, wouldn't it?" murmured Molly. She could
not remain silent. He seemed to draw expression from her.

"It sure would. But I don't want to tell you about myself, now. I want to
talk about you."

"An' I'd rather not."

"Aren't we mysterious?" He took her hand and held it.

Molly did not have the desire to withdraw it, nor the strength. But she
managed to look up. How pale and eager he was! His eyes devoured her. And
his face wore an ineffable smile.

"'All's fair in love and war,'" he said. "And I rustled you away from
them"--he indicated the distant dance-hall by an eloquent gesture--"to
have a minute with you alone."

Molly's presagement that something was going to happen to her was near
its fulfilment.

"There's a strange thing about you--a lack I can't understand," he went
on.

"What--do you mean?" faltered Molly. Had he found her out already?

"Oh, it's the most wonderful thing for me. I mean about the--the lack of
that best fellow you said you didn't have. How does it happen? Sure
you're only sixteen. But that's quite grown up in this country. Have you
a fierce father or brother?"

"You bet I have. Both!" replied Molly, with a little laugh. She was sure
of her ground here.

"Then that accounts. I'm glad. I was afraid of something else...Very
well, I make application for the vacant place."

"Place?" echoed Molly, weakly.

"Yes. I most earnestly apply for the job of being your best fellow."

"Oh, you--you can't be serious!" exclaimed Molly, in confusion.

"Serious? I'm afraid it is," he said, running a hand through his hair.
"You don't know me. And I haven't any recommendations. But I'd like you to
take me on without these."

"It isn't customary," returned Molly, trying to be light when she feared
he might hear the outrageous beating of her heart.

"I know that. But I've a weakness to be trusted with responsibility. If I
hadn't I'd never gotten into the trouble I'm bucking now...You'll have to
take me on faith--or not at all."

"But doesn't it--it apply to me--that way?" asked Molly, tremulously.

"No. I'm a man. And you're a girl."

"Yes. I'm beginnin' to find that out."

He laughed as if her reply was encouragement and possessed himself of her
other hand. Then undoubtedly he began to draw her a little toward him,
but to do him justice Molly imagined he did not realize it. She did,
however, to the imminent danger of rout of reserve and self-control.

"I would take you as my best girl--my only girl, I should say, without
one single thing beside your Yes."

Molly felt irresistibly drawn to the edge of an abyss. Here was an
opportunity quite beyond even her dreams.

"You're--you're--" Molly did not know just what he was, besides being
very careless and foolish. He had her almost leaning on his shoulder now.
She had not made the slightest resistance. She was as unstable as water.
Still, she tried to think in spite of his nearness and her dawning
emotions. "If I said--yes--an'--an' afterwards you went back on me!"

"Good Heavens!...Little girl, you had better say 'yes' pretty quick or
I'll--"

He choked at the end of that passionate utterance. Molly knew what he
meant. For the moment it paralysed her. And then it was too late. He had
her in his arms--tight against his breast. Molly closed her eyes. She did
not realize her state beyond the exquisite contrast to what her backwoods
admirers had roused in her. And suddenly that thought ended in a singular
revulsion. She stiffened She repulsed him with a stinging slap which,
blindly delivered, struck him across the lips.

He uttered an inarticulate cry of surprise and regret. His hand went to
his mouth, and then he applied a handkerchief there. The force of the
blow had cut his lip.

"I apologize," he said, constrainedly. "Sure lost my head--but I didn't
mean to insult you."

Molly, with as unaccountable an impulse as the other, placed a tender,
trembling hand on his lips. "I--I'm sorry," she whispered, wildly. "I
didn't mean that--at all." And she followed the touch of her hand with a
shy, swift kiss. Then she gasped at her utter effrontery.

"Well! You make sweet amends," he said, haltingly, as if she were beyond
him. "By that did you mean 'Yes'?"

Molly dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. The tight,
hot constriction in her breast eased its grip. "I don't know what I
meant, only it wasn't 'Yes.'"

"In that case you'd better explain."

Molly looked up, impelled by his tone. His eyes burned doubtfully down
upon her. His face shone pale in the moonlight.

"I--I'm dishonest," she burst out. "I've slapped boys before when
they--took liberties with me. I liked them, I suppose, but I didn't want
them pawin' and kissin' me...I really gave in to you...Only, I wasn't
fair. I wasn't honest. I hit you because I--I wanted you to keep on
believin' I was what all these people thought...They've made me act a
lie. Me--in these pretty clothes! But, oh, I couldn't help it. I was
afraid all the time. I knew somethin' terrible would happen."

"You wanted me to believe you were what?" he asked, sharply, bending over
her.

"Like Miss Price an' her friends."

"I think they might do well by being more like you," he returned. "I
asked to be your best fellow. I sure never asked it of any of them."

"But you don't know me!" cried Molly, distracted.

"I can see and think, cain't I? You're the sweetest, loveliest little
girl I ever met."

Molly was brutally torn between the ecstasy of that and the mercilessness
of her honesty.

"Fine feathers make fine birds," she replied, bitterly.

"You poor kid!...There's something queer here, but I swear it's not in
you. I'm taking your kiss for 'Yes!' Heavens! what else could a kiss
mean?"

"No, no. It meant nothin'," said Molly.

"Are your kisses so common, then?"

"You're the first boy I ever kissed," she flashed at him.

"I'm very proud of that. Well, then, what else could it mean except
'Yes'?"

"I was beside myself. I told you...I was ashamed--sick because I hit you.
But I wasn't dishonest when I kissed you."

"You said you wanted me to think you like Miss Price and her friends.
That puzzles me. I do think they can't compare with you."

"But you're only fooled," she said, despairingly.

"By what?"

"I don't know. This pretty dress, an' the place--an' everythin'."

"Why, it wouldn't make any difference to me what you wore or where you
were," he protested, tenderly.

"Oh yes, it would!"

"But, you child, didn't I fall in love with you at the booth?"

This protestation was almost too beautiful and poignant for Molly to
bear. It came in the nature of a revelation of her own beset state. In
another instant she knew she would surrender and fall into his arms.

"But you don't know who I am!"

"You're my sweetheart!" he returned, triumphantly.

Molly suffered during one instant of glorious exaltation.

"I am Molly Dunn, of the Cibeque," she said.

"Molly Dunn. What a pretty name!...Cibeque? Oh, that's the valley you
told me about."

"Yes. They call it the brakes of the Cibeque."

"Dunn. I've heard that name, too. Oh yes, I got into an argument with a
fellow named Dunn. Slinger Dunn, they called him. But sure you couldn't
be any relation to him."

"Why couldn't I?" she queried, in a curious calm.

"Heavens! He's a desperado! Wonderful-looking chap. They call him
'Slinger' because of his habit of throwing a gun. He has killed several
men. The sheriff here is scared to death of him. I happened to cross his
trail, unfortunately, and gave him a piece of my mind. If I ever saw
lightning in a man's eyes I saw it then. Whew!...Well, his companion, as
tough-looking fellow as he was, dragged him away. Saved me a scare if not
more."

"His right name is Arch," replied Molly, and rose to her feet.

"Of course, living around here you'd have heard of him. It must be
disgusting to have a criminal like that roaming around with the name of
Dunn. People might think he is related to you."

"He is."

The young man rose slowly, in consternation, and made an appealing
gesture.

"Impossible, Miss Dunn...Perhaps a very distant relation?"

"He is my brother."

"Good God! Your brother? You lovely, dainty, sweet little lady!...Why, I
saw him again, drunk and dirty, hobnobbing with Mexicans and Indians, if
he's a--one of your family, he surely must be an outcast."

"No. He was home the day I left to come here."

He appeared suddenly staggered, not only by the truth, but by the nature
of his transgression.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he began, hurriedly. "I've hurt you. I never
dreamed--please forgive me...After all, it was natural enough. Another of
my damned tenderfoot blunders! But who would ever think that you--"

"Ah! Now you've said it," she interrupted, passionately.

"Miss Dunn, I was only going to say who would ever think a wonderful girl
like you could have such a rotten brother? Well, it makes no difference
to me, I assure you of that," he said, bravely, essaying a fine effort to
keep under restraint. He was regarding her fearfully and again he had
turned pale.

-The bitterness of reality had steeled Molly, yet she shook inwardly as
he stood there, erect and earnest, doing her honour.

"Yet it does, or you couldn't have talked so," she replied, shaking her
head gravely.

"I say it doesn't," he retorted. "And I certainly shall hold you to your
word."

"Word? I didn't give any."

"You kissed me. Of your own sweet will! You can't get over that."

"No, I cain't...But it wasn't a promise."

"It certainly was. More than a promise. Unless you lied to me."

"Lie? I wouldn't lie to you," she declared.

"Then I hold you to it...Come, let's forget the--the thing. You see,
Molly, we fell in love before we got acquainted. Didn't we? Isn't that
great?"

"I didn't say we-I fell in love," returned Molly, pondering over the
significance of the words.

"Not in words--yet."

Again Molly felt the imminence of a precipice. She could not resist this
young man, stranger though he was, and presently she would not care to
try.

"I kissed you because I wanted to be square," she said. "With myself,
same as with you. I sure wasp t when I hit you. That's all."

"How can you say that? Kissing me proved your honesty. And for such a
girl as I hold you to be, a kiss means a good deal. It just about means
everything."

Molly was mournfully becoming cognizant of that very fact. Desperately
she cried out again that she was only Molly Dunn of the Cibeque.

At this he seized her in his arms, masterfully, yet guardedly.

"Stop harping on that," he demanded. "What do I care who you are? You
might be Sally Jones of the Missouri. I don't care any more than you'd
care if my name was Bud Applegate instead of Jim Traft."

"Instead--of--what?" faltered Molly, slipping out of his arms. "Why,
James Traft! Jim, for short."

"Traft? But that's the name of--of the cattle king."

"Sure. I'm his nephew. My dad is his brother. I was named after Uncle
Jim."

"You're the new foreman of the Traft outfit?"

"Yes, I am," he replied, nettled. "That's the very question your brother
asked me. Only he was insulting and you're--well, I don't care to have
you ridicule me. The idea of my being a foreman seems to stick in the
craw of these Westerners. Why not? I'm no nincompoop."

"You're the fellow who's buildin' the drift fence?"

"Yes--I am," he replied unsteadily.

"Did you know that fence is a slap in the face to every person down in
the Cibeque?"

"No, I didn't. Uncle Jim said it would rile a lot of no-good
homesteaders."

"I'm the daughter of one of them. An' sister to another," repined
Molly, in tragic finality, and with a flash of eyes she left him there.



CHAPTER FIVE


Up to eighteen years of age James Traft had often seen his uncle, the
Arizona pioneer and cattleman, who made frequent trips East. There had
grown up a bond of affection between them. James had from knee-high
listened to stories of Indian fights and road-agents, gunmen and
rustlers. The Westerner had never married; he was devoted to his brother,
who was James's father.

Then had come an interval of four years during which Jim Traft did not
visit Missouri. His vast interests had grown so complicated that he could
not leave them. During this time James had been at loose ends, trying
farming, clerking, and odd jobs without any indication that he might set
the world on fire. At last a letter from the West at least changed the
world for James.

Some passages in this blunt letter to his father were hard for James to
swallow.--In the natural course of events all of Jim Traft's property
would go to his nephew James. But that was something aside from James
ever making good use of it. If he were a strong, resourceful boy with
guts he might become a rancher. The cattle industry was growing. The days
of the great rustler barons were gone, though cattle-stealing still
represented altogether a big loss to the range. And so on.

The implication seemed to be that James would get all his uncle's money
without having worked for it, and that there was a question whether or
not he was big enough for the West. At first James had been humiliated
and furious, and would hear nothing of going to Arizona. Nevertheless,
his father prevailed in the end. Old Jim was caustic and crude; he had
grown up in the stern school of the ranges, but he was the very salt of
the earth and had genuine affection for James. He would be terribly hurt
if James refused and he would never understand.

"It scares me a little, Jimmy," his father had said. "You've got to have
the real stuff in you out there. I believe you have and I want you to go.
Show Jim you're a Traft!"

Persuaded and made to realize his opportunity, for which he should
sacrifice anything and strive with all his heart. James started West. His
first acquaintance with the Great Plains had come from the window of a
train, and long before he saw the vast gray slopes of Colorado and the
white-peaked Rockies the latent spirit of adventure stirred thrillingly
in him. Then the wild timbered uplands of New Mexico and the red-walled
canyon of Arizona won him to the West, long before he stepped off the
train at Flagerstown.

He had telegraphed his uncle as to his arrival, but there was no one to
meet him. What a funny, slow, sleepy, wide-streeted town! Every other
building, all high boarded and weathered, appeared to house a saloon. He
knew his uncle lived out of town, though not far. James finally found a
livery-stable, where he engaged a loquacious negro to drive him, bag and
baggage, out into the country. What he learned from this citizen of
Flagerstown, in that short drive, was certainly not reassuring.

But James liked the pine forest and the gray levels along the road, and
the black mountains rising in the distance. And he had a fine view of Jim
Traft's ranch home. It was nothing at all like he had pictured. Uncle Jim
had been long on cattle deals and short on description, so far as talk
was concerned. Across one of the wide grassy flats the long, low white
house stood on a pine-timbered knoll, and below it clustered a
bewildering array of corrals, barns, and sheds. Cattle dotted the wide
valley, and on the fenced meadows horses and colts grazed, too numerous
to count.

The road wound along the edge of the timber, from which James had ample
opportunity to see the ranch at different angles, and by the time he
reached the house was wild with enthusiasm about his future home.

A low-roofed comfortable porch fronted the house. Here James deposited
his baggage, and paying the driver, he knocked. Nobody answered, however,
so he went around to the back. A wide courtyard led out to the corrals.
He espied men out there and directed his footsteps in that direction.

Soon he came upon three cowboys around a horse, and then his uncle, who
stood with another man, watching them.

"Hello, Uncle Jim!" he yelled, and his rapid strides soon fetched him up.

"Howdy, Jim!" replied the rancher, as if he had seen his nephew only
yesterday, and extended his hand. "Got your telegram, but forgot to meet
you....By gum! you've sprung up like a weed."

Traft had not changed. His garb, however, was new to Jim, and consisted
of high boots, corduroys tucked in them, an old leather belt with an
empty gun-sheath on it, gray soft shirt, and a vest that had been new
years ago. He was a stalwart figure of a man, nearing seventy, but still
erect and rugged, with a lined hard face expressive of his life on the
frontier.

"Shake hands with Ring Locke," said Traft, indicating his companion, a
tall, lean, sandy-complexioned Westerner whose narrow eyes were almost
hidden under an old black sombrero.

Jim was cordial and prompt in his greeting.

"How do!" drawled Locke, whose accent proclaimed him a Texan. "I shore am
glad to meet you, sah."

"This is the nephew I told you about, Ring," went on Traft. "He has come
West to run the Diamond outfit."

Jim tried to bear well the scrutiny given him by this range boss of his
uncle's, a right-hand man who had been with him twenty years.

"Uncle should have said I'll try to run that outfit, Mr. Locke," said
Jim, frankly. "I'm not afraid. But I'm an awful tenderfoot."

Perhaps his earnestness favourably impressed Locke, for he smiled and
replied, dryly, "Wal, it ain't bad to start when you're a tenderfoot,
just so long as you know it."

"You bet I know it," continued Jim, hastening to follow that up. "When
Uncle's letter came I was sure up a tree. It sounded wonderful. But I had
listened to Uncle Jim's stories about gunmen and bad cowboys, wild steers
and bucking bronchos, stampedes and rustling. It wasn't easy to
decide...But here I am. And I can take a licking."

"Wal, reckon you're likely to get it," rejoined Locke. "But in this heah
country a lickin' ain't nothin', so long's it's not for keeps."

Jim took almost instantly to the lean Texan. But the three cowboys
standing by, apparently like hitching-posts, yet with still eyes and
faces, gave him an uncomfortable sensation. To be sure, they heard every
word. What clean-cut, lithe-limbed young men! The one holding the horse
had a gun hanging low from his belt. Jim faced this triangle of judges,
for so they seemed, expecting to be introduced. But his uncle apparently
neglected or avoided it.

"We'll go back to the house," he said, and led Jim away. "Have a good
trip out?"

"You bet. I've got a stiff neck from looking out of the car window,"
replied Jim, enthusiastically. "No matter what you've read or heard, you
can't get any true idea till you see it. I mean the plains, hills,
valleys, ranges, and mountains...Uncle, I liked all the whole long ride
out. But Arizona best."

"An' how's that?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe the great red walls--the canyons."

"Ahuh...Sorry I didn't meet you at the train. I reckoned I would. How's
your mother?"

"Fine and well. Uncle, she was crazy to have me come, but scared stiff."

"Good! An' how's that storekeeper brother of mine, your dad?"

"He hasn't been so well lately, but I guess it's nothing much. He sent a
letter and some things which I have for you."

"Did he kick about your comin' out?"

"No. All he kicked about was my making good. He gave me a stiff talk, you
bet."

They reached the house, where Jim was conducted to a large light room,
with walls and floor of clean yellow pine. A few deerskin rugs, a
wood-burning stove, a table with lamp, an old bureau and mirror, and
spare blanketed bed, constituted the contents, the simplicity of which
pleased Jim.

"Come out on the porch and we'll talk," his uncle had said. And Jim,
after securing the letter and parcels he had mentioned, hurried out to
deliver them.

"Thanks. I'll look at them later...Wal, Jim, you've growed. You're a
pretty husky chap. Too heavy, mebbe, but ridin' the range will soon
change that. By the way, have you been ridin' much since I saw you last?
You used to take to hosses."

"Had two years of riding every day. You know I tried farming."

"Yes, your dad mentioned it. How'd you make out?"

"I fell down, Uncle," replied Jim, regretfully. "I just couldn't do it."

"An' why not?" asked Traft, as if he already knew.

"I don't know, unless it was too tame. Every day the same! I thought I'd
die. But I stuck for two years. Then dad sold the farm, which was lucky
for me.

"What else you been doin' these four years since I seen you?"

"I was still in school for a year after you last visited us. Then the two
years on dad's farm. And the last year I tried several jobs, only one of
which I was any good at."

"An' what was that?" asked Traft, kindly. "Reckon it wasn't clerkin' in
the store?"

"No. I'm almost ashamed to tell you, Uncle. It was on my own hook,
though. I got an idea some shade trees would look fine round our place.
So I drove out to the river and dug up cottonwoods and planted them. Dad
laughed at me. Then our neighbour hired me to do the same for his place.
Through that I got other jobs, and I was making good money when your
letter came."

"Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated the rancher. "Plantin' trees, an'
cottonwoods at that. Son, it was a darn good idee."

Jim thanked his lucky stars he had confided something he had been afraid
his uncle would think trivial.

"Wal, so much for Missouri," went on Traft. "You're here in Arizona now.
Reckon I might have wrote you all about what I want and hope. But it
wouldn't have been fair to you or me. Fact is I couldn't have said all I
need to in a letter. Your dad would have throwed a fit. I reckoned it'd
be better to get face to face an' have it out. Don't you figger that way,
too?"

"I certainly do, Uncle, especially if it's as big and hard a job as I
imagine. And if it's really true that you have made me your heir."

"Wal, naturally, all I have would go to your dad an' you. But that's not
the question."

"It's a serious part of it for me," declared Jim, bravely. "I appreciate
your kindness, Uncle Jim, but if I can't make good as a rancher--well, I
don't want the property."

"Ahuh, I see. Wal, reckon your dad never guessed that." Jim felt the
piercing intensity of eyes like a pale blue gleam, yet not lacking
understanding. "However, what becomes of my property ain't the main issue
with me. Blood is thicker than water. An' under any circumstances I'd
want my only kin to have what I left."

"Then, Uncle, what is the main issue?" queried Jim, anxiously. "Wal, I
reckon it's I want you to be as near a son to me as possible."

"That's easy, Uncle, if it depends on sincerity and affection and
obedience."

"They'll help, but it depends most on what I said in my letter. Guts!"

"I remember, and that worried me. But I hope I have some."

"Jim, the job I want you to take is the hardest in the West."

"I don't care. The harder the better," declared Jim, answering the
stimulation of doubt. "I always told dad that I needed responsibility. He
never gave me any. The fact that you will put responsibility on my
shoulders is half of the battle right now."

"Son, that's straight talk," returned his uncle, nodding his head
thoughtfully. "An' I liked the way you spoke up to Ring Locke. If he took
a shine to you it'd help a lot...But, Jim, the hell of it is no rancher
who knows' the West ought ever to give a tenderfoot from the East such a
job."

"Why not?"

"Wal, I reckon because of natural human feelin's. But I'm just
bull-headed enough to want a Traft an' nobody else to take my place."

"If you were a young man, Uncle, could you take care of this job?" asked
Jim curiously.

"Yes. An' I reckon I could do it yet."

"All right, then," returned Jim, feeling his face blanch. "I'll commit
myself here. I'll do it."

"Fine! I like your spirit, son," exclaimed Traft, warmly, and a smile
transformed his hard lined face. "Now listen. I'm runnin' eight thousand
head of cattle, mebbe more. But we can never get a count. That's a lot of
stock, Jim. Figger out the value at forty dollars a head, which is a low
estimate. Wal, I lose from a thousand head up every year. Most of this
loss can be laid to cattle thieves. It has gradually growed worse an' has
begun to rile me. I used to laugh at this two-bit rustlin'. But it's no
good deceivin' myself any longer. The thing is serious. I've reason to
believe Ring Locke knows it's worse than he'll tell me. Anyway, he's the
best-posted cowman on the range.--Blodgett runs a big lot of cattle. So
does Hep Babbitt. They're all losin' stock, too."

"Uncle Jim, this is bad," declared Jim, in surprise. "It's almost like
the rustler stories you told me when I was a kid."

"Son, if I don't miss my guess you'll shore live one of them stories,"
responded Traft, with a grim laugh.

"You're being robbed, but you don't know where the cattle go?"
queried Jim, ignoring the start his uncle's statement gave him.

"Humph! We know darn well where they're gain'."

"Where?"

"South of here, in the brakes under the Diamond. An' the Diamond, I
should explain, is high country south of here. On three sides it sheers
straight down an' cattle can't get off. But on the west, for forty miles
or so, it slopes off into the roughest canyon country in Arizona. Thicker
than the Tonto. These canyons head up high in the timber an' run down
deep an' rough. All of them have fine grass an' water. Lots of deer, bear
an' turkey, too, if you like to hunt. Wal, a good deal of stock,
especially cows with unbranded calves, drift into these draws an' work
down into the brakes. There the cows are killed an' the calves stolen. It
used to be these thieves would take the meat an' bury or burn head an'
hide. But lately they kill too many. They just down the cows in a thicket
or drag them into one, an' leave them there for the varmints. Locke's
last report shore riled me."

"Then, Uncle, this tough job you're giving me has to do with the
thieves," asserted Jim.

"Wal, I should sort of smile it does," drawled Traft.

"But why not entrust it to an experienced Westerner, like Locke?"

"Locke can't bother with it, an' wouldn't if he could, at least the way I
want to stop it. An' as I told you I want a Traft to do this. Son, it'll
be a big thing for the range, if we succeed. I don't want one of these
gun-packin' cowboys to have the credit, when I can throw it to you."

"You're very kind, Uncle," said Jim, with a dry humour not lost upon
Traft. "Are you sure anyone but a fool tenderfoot would tackle the job?"

Trait laughed. He was growing more at ease with Jim. "Some of my boys are
achin' to get the job. Jim, my Diamond outfit is the damnest bunch of
cowpunchers in Arizona. An' it's this Diamond outfit you're to take
charge of."

"Damnest bunch! Doesn't sound very good, Uncle. Just what do you mean?"
returned Jim, dubiously.

"Huh! I'll leave that for you to find out...Now to come out with my plan.
I want a drift fence built from my ranch here clear down across the
Diamond to where it jumps off. A hundred-mile fence!"

"What's a drift fence?"

"It's just a fence along which cattle will drift south as far as they can
go, then drift back. It'd have several good uses, but the main one is to
keep the cows an' calves from driftin' down into the brakes."

"Well, the building of a fence even a hundred miles long oughtn't to be
so difficult."

"Shore it won't. But keepin' it up after it's built is where the hell
will come in."

Jim grasped subtly that here was the crux of the whole matter.

"There'll be opposition? Down on the Diamond," he rejoined.

"Shore will. An' for that matter all over the range. Even Blodgett is
oncertain about fencin' the range. You see, a barbed-wire fence in this
country is nothin' short of murder. An' these nesters an' homesteaders
an' backwoodsmen will lose by it. An' as for cowboys. Lord! how they hate
any kind of a fence! I reckon I used to. But I'm ahead of my day. I can
see what is needed an' what is comin'. So, Jim, you can trust me so far
as the benefit to ranchers is concerned."

"Uncle, have you an actual right to fence the range?"

"Shore, but it's open to question. If it ever went to law I'd have to
prove my contention. An' whoever sued me would have to show why he was
bein' hurt. No honest cattleman will ever take such action. An' I'm shore
doubtful about any of the homesteaders goin' so far."

"Could you prove your contention, which of course is that you are being
robbed?" queried Jim, earnestly.

"Wal, I could, if Ring Locke an' some of my cowboys would testify. But
they hate the idea like sixty. I'll expect you to find out what they
know, an' then add evidence of your own."

"I see. So far so good. How about your moral right?"

"Jim, I'm glad you ask that. You're no fool, if you are a tenderfoot. The
question of moral right is the most puzzlin' one--the most open to
argument. My own conscience is clear on that. I know in the long run the
range will benefit."

"How do you know? Prove it to me."

"Wal, you can see how us big cattlemen will profit by it."

"Yes, that's easy."

"Wal, the little cattlemen will have to stop stealin'."

"If there's no more to it, you're absolutely right. But won't you close
the range or fence off part of it from them?"

"In some sense, yes. But only those draws an' canyons I told you about.
There's shore water an' grass enough in them for ten times the stock
they own. Any one of them will admit that. These honest ranchers will
just stop appropriatin' calves they're not shore they own."

"The really honest fellows do that now?" queried Jim, in surprise.

"Shore they do, an' don't hardly think they're stealin'."

"An' the other kind?"

"Wal, we'll put them up a stump. Some of them will see the handwritin' on
the wall an' quit. An' others will cut our fence an' go right ahead
stealin'. That's where our trouble will come in. Mebbe we can stop it in
a few years, mebbe not. Some of the ranchers here think it'll start a
long, hard fight. An' that's why they're leavin' it to me."

"Wal, Uncle, what do you think it will lead to?"

"Nothin' much compared to what I've been through. But I reckon some
fence-cuttin' an' hard ridin' an' shootin' will seem a whole lot to you.
Ha! Ha!"

"It's not very funny," said Jim, soberly.

"Wal, son, your face was. Don't let my Diamond outfit see you look like
that."

"I'm to hide my feelings from them?" queried Jim.

"Nope. You're not to have any, except gettin' mad, an' when you do that
you want to let them see it damn pronto."

"Oh!...Uncle, I can see this is going to be a lovely easy job."

"Wal, it'd shore pleases me if you'd find it that...Jim, I'm puttin' a
lot on you. An' I reckon in a way it's selfish."

"No. Nothing of the kind," replied Jim, hastily. "I believe implicitly in
you, Uncle Jim. I'll make your ideals and motives mine...Otherwise, I'm
scared stiff, but I believe I like the tough job you've given me--if I
can only make a go of it!"

"Wal, the best encouragement I can give you is that I like the way you
face it," returned Traft. "Shore it's more than I expected, first off."

"Thanks, Uncle. That'll help a lot," declared Jim, feelingly. "I'd like
some advice, too."

"Wal, I never was much on givin' advice. Nobody ever follows it."

"I'd try. But at least you can tell me what you'd do, if you had all your
knowledge of the range, yet were only my age."

"Haw! Haw! That's a stumper. Jim, I reckon I'm goin' to like you, outside
of blood relationship. What'd I do? Wal, let's see...First off I'd go to
town an' buy the best cowboy outfit I could get, an' that means saddle,
bridle, spurs, chaps, sombrero, gun, boots, an' so on. That would be for
special occasions. Then I'd wear most the time just plain overalls. I'd
pack the gun an' begin to learn to shoot it. I'd have a little straight
talk with the boys who was to work under me an' I'd let them know I was
to be boss. I'd always do my share of any an' all kinds of work. I'd show
a disposition not to give any boy a job I wouldn't try to tackle myself.
I wouldn't be too nice to take a drink, on occasions where it might be
wise, but I'd leave drink alone. Also--an' I hardly need to tell you
this--I'd leave the town slatterns alone. I'd lend my money free, but
never my hors or saddle or spurs. I'd always stand the brunt of any
trouble directed against my outfit. That'll be hard, for you'll find each
an' every one of your cowboys keen to do that same thing. Last, an' I
reckon most particular an' hard, I'd stand up under the hell the
Westerners will make for a tenderfoot. I'd run the gauntlet. I'd make all
the decent fellows like me--an' most of them are decent--an' I'd make the
others respect me."

Jim had the good humour and the nerve to laugh in his uncle's face.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Is that all, Uncle? I thought you were going to give me
something hard."

"Wal," declared Traft, gruffly, with a dubious look at his nephew, "I was
a-goin' to add somethin' that I never could do myself."

"And what is that?" asked Jim, suddenly.

"Get married pronto."

Jim whistled. "Heavens! I hope you haven't picked out a Western girl for
me."

"Nope. But I'm hopin' you didn't leave no Eastern girl behind."

"Luckily I didn't, Uncle."

"Wal, that's somethin'. You won't find these Western girls special sweet
on a tenderfoot. But you're not bad-lookin'. You shore have prospects,
an' if you try you might win one of them."

"Whew! Uncle, that's a sticker. I'm afraid I'll have to jump the
traces on that one."

"Jim, I'm onreasonable," said Traft, wistfully. "But I'd shore like to
hear the laughter of children round this ranch-house before I die."



CHAPTER SIX


A week elapsed before the Diamond outfit came in from the range.

Jim made the most of that reprieve. He was up at dawn and did not go to
bed till late. He went at Ring Locke like a youngster who could not swim
in a swift current and was going to hold on or die. But Locke seemed only
kind and aloof. He answered some questions; he never vouchsafed any range
lore. Jim was sharp enough to find out, however, that Locke had a keen
eye for him, and this gave him some grain of comfort.

Apparently his uncle never saw him unless he bumped right into him. Jim
refused to take all or any of the wonderful horses that were his to own
and ride. He rode or tried to ride all the mustangs and bronchos about
the ranch. At first he kept account of the times he got thrown, but he
gave this up. He certainly did know, however, that he had many bruises
and sprains and bumps. Moreover, he grew so saddle-sore that it was agony
for him to struggle up on a horse.

During this wait he learned every nook and cranny of the ranch, and there
were a thousand acres and more, including the timber. He could not avoid
coming into occasional contact with other of his uncle's cowboy outfits.
And these instances were painful to Jim.

He found also, on numerous trips into town, where it was impossible to
keep from meeting people, that he was an object of very great interest to
everybody, especially the girls and young women. Jim, remembering his
uncle's wishes, and being far from a hater of the opposite sex, at the
outset made himself most agreeable. Presently he confined himself merely
to politeness. The interest he had observed did not extend as far as
personal propinquity.

One morning he had returned from a disastrous determination to stick on
the back of a mustang, and had again taken up a dirty job at the barn,
when a farmhand approached him with a message: "Boss says the Diamond
outfit is in waitin' fer you."

Jim let them wait awhile, until he got himself thoroughly dirty and tired
and cross. Then he limped round to the bunkhouses. His uncle did not
appear to be among the bunch of cowboys at the last house. No doubt he
had beat a hasty retreat.

"I'll bet the old devil is snickering," muttered Jim.

He approached the young men, and before he got even close he saw they
constituted a remarkable group. They had a singular similarity, and yet
upon near scrutiny they were not at all alike.

"How do, boys!" he said, bluntly, as he halted before them. "So you're
the Diamond outfit I'm to boss?...Well, I'm not a damn bit gladder
to meet you than you are to meet me."

Most of them greeted him with a word or nod. Jim found that he had not
exactly spoken the truth, for he certainly sustained thrills when he
looked these cowboys over. There did not appear to be one as old as he
was, nor, for that matter, as big, though several were as tall.
Lithe-bodied, long of limb and bow-legged, with small round hips and wide
shoulders, lean and sharp of face, bronzed and sunburnt, with
expressionless eyes like gimlets, they certainly belonged to a striking
and unique class.

"Who was your last foreman?" asked Jim.

After quite a long silence one of them replied, "Jud Blue."

"Is he here with you now?"

"Reckon no one has noticed him."

"Where is he?"

"Wal, if he's where he ought to be he's in hell," came the laconic reply.

"How so?" flashed Jim.

"Jud was shot last month down on the Diamond."

"Shot!...Was it an accident?"

"Shore was, for him. But whoever did it was lookin' pretty straight."

Jim did not betray the shock this intelligence gave him, but he certainly
made note of another circumstance his uncle had not imparted.

"Which one of you has been longest with my uncle?" he questioned.

"Hump Stevens, heah, was in the first Diamond outfit. Six years ago,
wasn't it, Hump?"

"Round aboot thet," drawled a tall, tawny cowboy who was
stoop-shouldered.

"Stevens, then, ought to be foreman of this outfit," returned Jim. "And
after him every one of you according to your service. Well, let's
understand each other right here. I certainly am not stuck on the job and
think I'm the last fellow on earth to tackle it. But my uncle has put it
on me. He wants to leave his property to me. And I won't have it unless I
can deserve it. And that means make good at ranching from the ground up."

Blank, still faces baffled Jim. It was impossible to tell whether or not
these cowboys were in the least impressed. They certainly thought he was
a liar.

"You can lay off till Monday morning," added Jim, curtly. And before he
started to limp away he gathered that his first order to them had been
received with a pleasant surprise. Perhaps the ensuing hour was the most
profoundly thoughtful of any since he had decided to embark upon this
adventure. What an unknown quantity the Diamond outfit! He had needed
only one look at these devil-may-care boys to realize it. Cowboys were
not wholly strangers to him. These, however, were the dyed-in-the-wool
range product. They were potential chain lightning and firebrand. He was
conscious of admiration, dread, and an acute desire to make friends with
them. After meeting them he realized he could not expect any material
help from Ring Locke or his uncle. The matter was personal.

Wherefore he carefully kept out of their way for a day and a half. On
Saturday afternoon he went to town, and he had not been there long before
he heard that the Diamond outfit was painting some very vivid red. Jim
laughed. After a while, however, it grew monotonous. And when he happened
to encounter Miss Blodgett in one of the stores and have her subtly refer
to his cowboys he became irritated. Must the whole town take up the
situation which his uncle had precipitated? A second look into Miss
Blodgett's hazel eyes confirmed the suspicion. She was the nicest of the
girls he had met so far, a tall, rangy girl who looked like she could
ride a horse. She had freckles and brown curls and was rather pretty.

"I met Curly Prentiss in the post-office," she announced, after he had
greeted her.

"Who's he?" asked Jim, though he had an inkling.

"Don't you know Curly yet?" she rejoined, merrily. "Well, he's one of
your Diamonds."

"Oh, I see! Fact is I don't know any of them. Was there anything
particular about your meeting him today?"

"Not so very--for Curly. He used to ride for us. Finest cowboy in the
world. But when he drinks--well, his tongue wags."

"Reckon it wagged about me on this occasion?"

"It sure did...Mr. Jim, have you anyone to write home to your mother and
sister?"

Jim eyed her with misgivings. These Western girls were as deep as the
cowboys. Jim conceived an idea, however, that Miss Blodgett was friendly,
or she would never have made that remark.

"You mean about the disposition of my remains?" rejoined

Jim, dryly. "Thanks, but I'm going to see that will not be necessary.
I've fallen in love with my new job. In fact, I like the West--and
everybody out here. Good afternoon, Miss Blodgett."

And Jim went on, muttering to himself: "Dog-gone it! They're all after my
scalp, even the girls. I hope I'm not going to get sore."

Presently he went into a pool-room to buy a smoke. The place was fairly
well crowded, and at the very first table he saw a cowboy he recognized
as one of his Diamond outfit. He was in the act of making a shot. But he
straightened up. His fine tanned young face was flushed and there were
other indications that he had been drinking.

"Boss, I ain't doin' nothin'," he said, slowly.

"Who said you were?" returned Jim, realizing that he must have looked
sharply at the boy.

"You're lookin' for Curly?"

"Yes," answered Jim, suddenly inspired.

"Sheriff Bray just collared Curly. Honest, boss, Curly was behavin'
himself strick proper. But Bray has got it in for us Diamond fellars. An'
Curly"--here the cowboy came round the table to be closer to Jim--"Curly
was pretty drunk an' noisy. It was a chance for Bray, who'd never had
nerve enough any other time. This sheriff is a four-flusher, boss. He's
never had one of us in jail yet."

"Which way did they go?" asked Jim.

"Down the street. The jail's across the tracks."

Jim hurried out and in the direction advised, not certain of his position
in the matter. Still, he did not take kindly to the idea of one of his
cowboys going to jail. Moreover, he had met Sheriff Bray and had not been
greatly impressed in that individual's favour. Jim, while crossing the
tracks, espied Bray dragging a reluctant and protesting cowboy along the
station platform, followed by a small crowd. Running ahead, Jim
intercepted them. This cowboy he also recognized, a tall, handsome fellow
with curly yellow hair, just now very red in the face, but not so drunk
as Jim had been led to suppose.

"Hold on, Sheriff!" called Jim, as he confronted them. "You've got one
of my boys. What's the charge?"

"Hullo!" gruffly returned Bray.

He was a burly man, thick-featured, with a bluish cast of countenance,
and he wore his sheriff's badge and gun rather prominently. "Oh, it's
young Mr. Traft. I didn't know you...Wal, this boy was gettin' a little
too obstreperous to suit me. So I'm runnin' him in."

"Obstreperous! What do you mean by that?" demanded Jim, arriving at his
decision.

"Wal, thet's what I call it."

"Curly, what'd you do?" inquired Jim of the red-faced, blue-eyed boy.

"Boss, I was singin'," asserted Curly. "This heah one-hoss occifer sings
in--choir an' he thinks he's--only singer."

"Wal, you can sing in jail," declared the sheriff, with a gleam in his
eye.

"Bray, I reckon you'd better not run Curly in," said Jim, coolly. "Let's
walk along across and get away from this crowd. I'll take Curly around
the block."

"Say, for a tenderfoot you're startin' fiat in to play a high hand,"
sneered Bray. All the same, he had his doubts, which Jim was quick to
observe.

"Correct, Bray," rejoined Jim, as he took Curly's arm. Between them they
walked him away from the curious onlookers, and round a corner to the
entrance of the jail. Here Curly's face was a study. Manifestly before
Jim's arrival he had surrendered to the majesty of the law, but this
amazing champion in the shape of his boss had galvanized him.

"Bray, there ain't none of Diamond outfit ever been--in jail. It's
disgrash," he asserted, belligerently.

"I'll vouch for him, Sheriff," added Jim.

"Prentiss, you come along," ordered Bray, roughly.

By this time Jim's blood had grown a little hot. He had recalled what his
uncle had said about Bray and thought he might just as well face the
issue. He jerked Curly free from the sheriff, and interposed himself
between them.

"If you had any charge against Curly I wouldn't interfere. But you
haven't. Why, he isn't half drunk."

"I'll arrest you both for resistin' an officer," threatened Bray, his
hand going to his hip.

Jim saw the action, followed it with his eye.

"So you'd throw your gun on us," he said, with derision.

"Boss, let go an' stand aside. This heah ain't funny no more," spoke up
Curly. The change in him, the ring in his voice, made Jim jump, but he
did not release the cowboy.

"No, Curly, I'm responsible here," he replied.

Bray had subtly altered, which fact Jim grasped to have to do with
Curly's sudden menace.

"Wal, Traft, I'll let him go in your care," he growled. "But I'm givin'
you a hunch. Prentiss said somethin'. This Diamond outfit ain't funny no
more."

"Thanks, Bray. I consider that a compliment to me. Come on, Curly."

Jim walked the cowboy down the block and up a side street until they got
out of the centre of the town. Neither he nor Curly broke silence during
his walk. Finally Jim halted on a corner.

"Curly, will you go back to the ranch? I'd go with you, but I've errands
to do."

"Boss, are you orderin' me?" queried the cowboy.

"No, I'm asking you."

"Then I ain't a-goin'."

"Very well, then. I'll have to make it an order. Will you go now?"

"I reckon. The Diamond ain't disobeyin' orders. But what'd you want to go
do this heah trick for?"

"Trick? I've only kept you out of jail."

"Shore. An' the outfit will be sore at me."

"Curly, I don't understand you," protested Jim.

"They ain't a-goin' to stand for me bein' friends with a tenderfoot
boss."

Jim began to get a glimmering. The tall cowboy seemed pained over this
little service. He looked most disapprovingly at Jim. "Curly, you needn't
let that embarrass you."

Apparently Curly could not help being embarrassed. He wheeled and strode
away. Half across the street he turned. "Boss, I fort. I'm in an orful
fix," he said, and strode back. "My gurl's in town. I haven't laid eyes
on her for two months. Shore it won't be safe to let it go longer."

"Curly, are you asking me to explain to your girl or to allow you to come
back to town?" queried Jim.

"Reckon I was just tellin' you."

"Well, I dare say you are in a fix. What do you want of me?" rejoined
Jim, who divined that the cowboy did not like to ask a favour.

"It'd never do for you to see Nancy. I lost one gurl that way."

"Curly, I'll help you out. Promise you'll not take another drink today.
Then walk out to the ranch and walk back tonight. That'll sober you. And
you can see your girl."

Curly swore. He bent a strange blue gaze upon Jim.

"I reckon there ain't no help for it," he muttered, as if declaring an
inevitable fact to himself. Then he strode away.

Jim scarcely knew how to take this last declaration and he went back
uptown, pondering over it. These cowboys were certainly going to be
problems. They were like children. But he had had a most pleasing
reaction from this first encounter with one of the Diamond outfit.

Jim returned to his errands, which took him up and down the main
throughfare of Flagerstown, and therefore past the saloons and
pool-halls. It struck him that the town was growing rather lively as
evening approached. All the hitching-rails were crowded with
saddle-horses, many of which took Jim's appreciative eye.

Jim was entering the hotel, where he expected to meet his uncle and ride
home with him, when he was detained by another member of the Diamond, who
barred his way obviously if not rudely. Two other cowboys drew back.

"Excuse me, Mister Traft. I'm Hack Jocelyn, an' I'm wantin a word with
you."

He was cool, insolent, and something else Jim could not name. "Aren't you
one of my cowboys?" asked Jim.

"I've been ridin' with the Diamond, if thet's what you mean. But I ain't
shore I'm stayin' with the outfit."

Jim had been told by no less an authority than Ring Locke that horses and
men could not separate the Diamond outfit. "You're not, eh? Well, you
want to be pretty sure, or you won't be riding for it. What do you want?"

Jocelyn appeared to be gauging Jim.

"I was in Babbitt's an' they told me they'd sent out a wagonload of
barbed wire to the ranch. Fer the Diamond outfit! An' I calls him a
liar."

"Then you'll have to apologize. It was for the Diamond. And there's a
carload more ordered."

"Hell you say!" ejaculated Jocelyn, in amaze and gathering anger. "An'
what's it fer?"

"None of your business, Jocelyn," retorted Jim. "If you'd asked me
civilly I'd have told you."

"But barbed wire is most used fer fences!" exclaimed the cowboy. His two
comrades edged closer until they were beside him, watchful, hiding their
feelings, if they had any. "An' nobody in Gawd's world would reckon the
Diamond'd have anything to do with thet!"

"The Diamond is in for some new experience, Jocelyn. And you may as well
know fence-building is one of them."

"Haw! Haw! It shore is. A tenderfoot dude foreman! Then barbed-wire
fence! My Gawd! what's the range comin' to?"

Jocelyn had turned to his companions, to whom, in fact, his exclamation
had been directed. Jim shot out a hand and spun him around like a top.

"Did you call me a tenderfoot dude foreman?" he queried, and despite his
temper he was quick-witted enough to ascertain that Jocelyn was not
armed. Otherwise he would wisely have restrained himself altogether.

"Wal, Mister Traft, I reckon I did," he drawled. He expressed the usual
cowboy nonchalance, but there was also a vindictive quality in his words,
if not their content.

Jim knocked him flat. He had not calculated consequences. In accepting
his uncle's job he had burned his bridges behind him. But when Jim saw
Jocelyn lying there, then slowly rising, his hand to his face, which was
black as a thundercloud, he awoke to another sensation. He would not,
however, have recalled the blow.

"Jocelyn, you're fired," he said, as coolly as the cowboy had spoken.
"But if you come out to the ranch and apologize to me I'll take you on
again."

"You better be packin' a gun," declared Jocelyn, darkly.

"Aw, shut up, if you can't talk sense," returned Jim, in disgust. "You
insulted me. And if you're not man enough to own up to it you can bet
there's no place on the Diamond for you."

Jocelyn's two friends laid hold of him and drew him away. Whereupon Jim
turned to enter the hotel, where among several persons who had been
spectators of the little by-play were his uncle and Ring Locke.

"Hello! Say, I'm sorry you happened to see that," said Jim, regretfully.
"But, Uncle, he just made me boil."

"Come inside," rejoined Traft, and when the three of them were out of
earshot of bystanders he turned to Locke. "Ring, he called Hack's bluff.
An' mebbe he didn't poke that puncher's snoot! I damn near choked myself
to keep from yellin'."

"Uncle!" exclaimed Jim, as surprised at this speech as at Traft's glee.

"Son, the only fault I can locate in you so far is you talk too quick an'
too much. It'll get you in serious trouble."

"But I nearly burst at that," expostulated Jim.

Ring Locke shook his lean hawklike head forebodingly. "Wal, it's six for
me an' half a dozen fer the other," he said. "It's bad an' good. More
good, I'd say. If the new foreman of the Diamond had stood fer that--wal,
he couldn't have had a chance. Mebbe the boys put Hack up to it. If so
he'll be as nice as pie an' come back to square himself. If not--" Here
Locke shook his head gravely.

"Ring, I'll bet you four bits he'll be out here tomorrow," said Traft.

"But suppose he doesn't come?"

"Can't we fill his place?" asked Jim, anxiously.

"Nope. We can't fill the place of any of thet outfit," rejoined Locke.
"But I was thinkin' of what it'd mean...Young man, this same Hack Jocelyn
has shot fellars fer less."

"It's true, son," corroborated Traft, sombrely. "That's the worst of it.
This gang of yours has made way with nine men since they rode for me. Six
years! Shore some of them were damn good riddance."

"More'n nine, boss," corrected Locke. "Lonestar Holliday got drove out of
Texas fer a shootin'."

"What!" gasped Jim. "Those fine clean boys murderers?"

"Jim, you're out West now," said his uncle, testily. "When two men get
into an argument or quarrel an' draw--it ain't murder if one is killed.
We couldn't run the range without cowboys an' they're shore a tough crowd
of young roosters...Ring, fetch round the buckboard an' we'll go home."

On the way out Traft dilated on the serious and uncertain side of range
life. Jim realized that his education on the West had but just begun. He
had not been ignorant of facts, but they seemed vastly significant and
perturbing at close hand. During the ride out and at supper he maintained
silence. Later, when he had recovered from the effect of this first
clash, he could not feel that he would have desired to have met it in any
other way. But neither his uncle nor Ring Locke could understand his
feelings. Jim himself found them rather complicated. He had been furious,
then frightened, then cold. And now, instead of wanting to go home to
Missouri, he surrendered still more to Arizona.



CHAPTER SEVEN


Late on Sunday afternoon, while Jim sat on the porch, his uncle called
attention to a cowboy approaching from a direction in which he could not
be seen from the bunkhouses.

"Bud Chalfack," announced Traft, with a chuckle.

"Who's Bud?"

"You'll see pronto. He's the peacemaker of the outfit. Bud's a diplomat,
the slickest, coolest hand on the range. Whenever anyone is in wrong, Bud
is elected to set him right."

"Ahuh," returned Jim, dubiously. He watched the cowboy stroll up the lane
and down the path to the porch. Bud appeared to be a little fellow, but
sturdy, bow-legged, and otherwise suggestive of long association with
horses. He was smoking a cigarette, which he threw away as he reached the
steps. He had an open, guileless countenance and he reminded Jim of a
rosy-faced cherub.

"Good evenin', Mr. Traft, an' howdy, boss!" he said, cheerfully. "May I
set down?"

"Shore, Bud," replied Traft, genially. "Reckon you look sort of weak.
What ails you? Too much town?"

"Weak? I couldn't fork a bench at a feast, let alone a hoss. We been
wrastlin' all day with Hack. But you ought to see the other fellars.
They're laid out."

"Is Hack here?" asked Jim, quietly.

"He's down at the bunkhouse. I been sent fer him."

"Why didn't he come himself?"

"Wal, lust off he wouldn't come an' I reckon now, he ain't able."

Bud's grave infantile face was averted for a moment, during which Jim
shot a quick glance at his uncle, to be rewarded by a wink. Matters were
progressing favourably. Jim drew a breath of relief and gave in to the
fun of the situation.

"What ails him? Did he get drunk last night? Sick this morning?"

"Boss, I reckon both. But it ain't them. We was sorta put out with Hack.
Shore we didn't mean to let him bust up the Diamond. An' he was daid set
on thet. So after arguyin' all day we got tired, an'--wal, Hack's in
bed."

"I see. Then he can't come over to apologize and get his job back. Or did
he want to do it?"

"Wal, Hack shore wanted the job back all right, but he hated the terms.
He said, 'Jest tell the boss I'll apologize if he'll swear I won't have
to dig no holes fer fenceposts.'"

Jim had difficulty in restraining a shout.

"Bud, I'm afraid Hack will have to dig holes along with the rest of us. I
sure expect to," replied Jim, gravely.

The cowboy looked incredulously to Mr. Traft for corroboration of that
statement.

"Bud, it's up to Jim. You'll have to fight it out together. You can tell
the boys, though, that Jim will not give them anythin' he won't tackle
himself."

"All right, sir. Thet's shore fairer'n any foreman I ever rode
under...But Hack won't never dig no fence post-holes. We had it out with
him an' so I may as well tell you. He yells at us, 'Hell! if I gotta dig
holes, let 'em be graves fer thet Cibeque bunch of calf thieves.'"

"Wal!" the old rancher exclaimed, and glanced from Bud to see how his
nephew would take that. Jim did not feel like shouting with laughter over
it. Nevertheless, he concealed his consternation.

"Bud, wasn't Hack just raving?" he asked.

"Shore he was ravin'. An' he'd reason, too. Boss, shore your uncle has
told you what this drift fence will do?"

"He hasn't told me anything," replied Jim.

"Wal, some of us will have to, then," said Bud. "I ain't quite agreed
with Hack an' the other boys of the Diamond. But I've only been ridin'
hyar fer a couple of years. Hack swears we'll have to fight. He knows
Seth Haverly an' his outfit of the Cibeque. Bad hombres, he called them.
An' Slinger Dunn don't need no introduction 'round Flag. You can see his
trade-mark in more'n one place...Some of the boys agree with Hack. We'll
have hell buildin' thet fence, an' wuss'n hell when we get it done."

"Bud, is the Diamond game to build that drift fence?" queried Jim, with
sarcasm.

"You bet your life it is," flashed Bud.

"Are you going to stick together?"

"Wal, we reckon nothin' but death can bust the outfit."

"If I left it to a vote, how many of you would be for building the
fence?"

"Boss, we've already voted. This mawnin'. An' Hack was the only fellar to
drop a black mark in the hat. Leastways, we think it was Hack."

"I'm glad to hear that. Now how do you stand on the moral issue?"

"Boss, I don't just savvy."

"You're all cattlemen in the making. Is it right or wrong?"

"Wal, fact is, we're not all shore. But the most of us believe that Mr.
Traft knows more an' sees farther, an' wouldn't never do no homesteader
or little cattleman a low-down trick. We're goin' to believe he's right
an' stand by him."

"But you all think he shouldn't have saddled this job on to a tenderfoot
nephew?" queried Jim, penetratingly.

"Wall, I--I reckon we do," replied Bud, growing red in the face.

"There!" cried Jim, triumphantly, to his amused uncle. "See what you've
done!...Come, Bud, I'll walk down to the bunk-house with you."

He found half a dozen of the boys there, but missed Curly Prentiss. Hack
Jocelyn lay on a bunk under a window, the light of which showed him
rather badly bruised up. He had one black eye, which he endeavoured to
hide.

"Hack, you get your job back, but it was a half-hearted apology," said
Jim.

"Boss, I'd never give in but fer this low-down lousy outfit," replied
Jocelyn. "An' I'm tellin' you straight I won't dig no fence-post holes.
I'll cut an' haul posts. I'll cook an' wash, an I'll pack water an' run
errands."

"Hack, you don't look like you were sorry you insulted me."

"Boss, I don't reckon it no insult. I was only bein' funny. But you
shore do wear nice store clothes, don't you?"

"Can't I wear overalls all week and put on clean shirt and pants without
being a dude?" inquired Jim.

"Wal, it depends on the pants an' the shirt."

"Matter of taste, eh? Well, I'll wear out my St. Louis clothes pronto."

Jocelyn peered hard out of his unclosed eye at this new specimen of range
foreman, and then gave up with a disgusted grunt.

Next morning before sunrise the Diamond rode out upon their momentous
adventure. Thirty saddle and pack horses, one four-horse wagon hauling
wire and tools, and the chuck-wagon, made quite a cavalcade. Ring Locke
saw them off, but Traft did not show up. Locke's last word was one of
commendation at Jim's wise move to pitch the first camp five miles out of
town. Jim intended to drop bales of wire all along the way, then work
back from camp.

By the time that camp was pitched Jim imagined he was at the head of the
weirdest rodeo ever given in the West. But the only argument he had was
with Curly, who took violent exception to the ragged, bony old mustang
Jim chose to ride.

"But I'm tellin' you," protested Curly, at length. "He'll eat out of your
hand till he gets a chance to kick your brains out. Thet ain't no hots
fer the boss of the Diamond. It's an orful disgrace."

"You'll have to put up with a lot, Curly," said Jim, patiently. "I can
ride this nag."

"Ride him! There ain't no cowpuncher in this outfit who can do it."

"But, Curly, I have ridden him."

"He's only foolin'. Boss, he'll pile you up aboot tomorrow."

Jim started the work just after noon hour and it beat any circus he ever
attended. He dug the first hole himself, with his cowboys gaping around.

"There!" he exclaimed, in satisfaction.

"Whoopee!" yelled Hack Jocelyn, in stentorian voice. "Boys, heah's the
grave of the Diamond!"

His fellow cowboys whooped so wildly in reply that Jim felt constrained
to believe Jocelyn's pessimistic augury. Then, under Jim's orders, they
set to work, and they yelled and swore, and kept up a constant harangue
with one another. Jim had three of them dragging in long poles, which
were cut into seven-foot lengths, five feet of which were to stand above
ground. Jim had thought out his plan and it bade fair to work. Bud
Chalback, Lonestar Holliday, and Hump Stevens had volunteered to handle
the wire, which, next to post-hole digging, seemed to be the most
obnoxious to these aristocrats of the range.

Fortunately for Jim, it was not necessary to build the drift fence in a
straight line. A general direction to the south, keeping to levels and
the easiest way, was the rule. Jim marked the line and the holes for a
certain distance, then went back to help in all details of the labour. It
had happened that not so many months ago he had built a barbed-wire fence
round his father's farm in Missouri. He had not forgotten that. His
father had not only been an exacting employer, but he knew how to go
about fence-building. So Jim had a distinct advantage over his cowboys.
who certainly had never had any share in such work. All the same, they
found fault with every single detail of Jim's plan and execution,
sometimes so guilelessly and with such apparent sincerity that he knew
they had begun their mischief. He took especial care, however, in every
instance to explain and prove to them the fallacy of their criticisms.
Here was too good a chance to miss.

The first day ended, and a dirty, sweaty, hungry string of cowboys walked
back to camp.

"Who'd a thunk it? Hoofin it to camp! As if barbed-wire-fence buildin'
wasn't enough. Boys, we'd be better off in the pen at Yuma," declared
Cherry Winters, throwing his sombrero.

"It's a helluva good thing none of us has to cook on this job," said
Uphill Frost. "You've all got to thank the boss fer thet."

"Wal, Up," replied someone, "we'd liefer you was the cook, 'cause then
we'd soon be daid."

"Look aheah, Jackson Way," retorted Frost. "You hungry-lookin' jack
rabbit! I kin beat you makin' sour-dough biscuits any day."

"Shore you can. I ain't no cook."

And so the badinage went on. Jim shut his ears when he was a little way
off, to avoid hearing their facetious remarks about him, but on occasions
he caught some of it.

The amazing day ended with Jim's adding a lame back and blistered hands
to his other ills. They had camped in the open field, where a few
straggling pines had escaped the lumbermen, and the site was far from
pretty. Jim unrolled his tarpaulin under one of them. He had never slept
out in the open in his life. The cowboys would have laughed if they had
seen him in his room at the ranch-house, struggling over the rolling and
roping of that bed.

The cook had been highly recommended to Jim, by no less a person than
himself, and that, too, in writing. He claimed to hear fairly well, but
he was dumb. Shot in the throat once, by a vicious cowboy!

"Say, when is thet cadiverous galoot a-goin' to yell, 'Come an' get it'?"
demanded Hack.

"Anybody know what his handle is?" asked another.

"Boys, our cook's name is Jeff Davis," announced Jim, importantly. "He
hails from Alabama. He can't talk, but he wrote he could hear fairly
well."

"Why cain't he talk?" asked Hack.

"A dumb cook! Holy Jupiter! We're Jonahed fer keeps!"

"Fine. He cain't cuss the daylights out of us."

"Wal, if he can cook--O-Kay!"

"Thar's enough rebels in this heah outfit now without havin' a rebel
cook," growled another.

"Boys," added Jim, by way of answer to all these remarks, "Jeff claims to
have been shot in the throat by a vicious cowboy. Made dumb forever.
Think of it!"

"Wal, he might have been one of these fellars who talk too much,"
declared Hack, significantly.

The sudden and violent beating of a tin pan appeared to be Jeff's call to
supper.

Uphill Frost, who had fallen into a doze, leaped up with a yell,
"Injuns!"

He was the last to reach the chuck-wagon, perhaps by the fraction of a
second. The things they said to the grave-faced cook, as he filled their
plates and cups, were enough, Jim thought, to make a dumb man swear.
Probably he alone caught a curious little gleam in Jeff's deep-set eyes.
That gave Jim food for thought. Then the members of the Diamond stood
around, or sat cross-legged like Indians on the ground. The ensuing
silence fell like a mantle. It seemed so beneficent and wonderful that
Jim imagined he had been suddenly transported to another world.

After supper they had a camp fire around which they sat and smoked. Jim
enjoyed that hour. The infinite and various moods of the cowboys seemed
to have flagged. Then one by one they, some without removing their boots,
rolled in their tarpaulins. Jim took off some of his clothes, and when he
stretched out in his bed with a groan he felt that he would never move
again. How delicious that bed! He burned and ached all over, and tired as
he was could not soon go to sleep. The canopy of white stars seemed so
wonderful and strange. The air, which had turned cold with the night wind
down off the mountain, blew over his face. Jim had heard his first coyote
chorus at the ranch, so he was in a way prepared for another at close
range. Evidently this visiting bunch sat round in a half-circle, just
behind his bed, and barked, yelped, whined their wild concatenations. He
enjoyed the music for a while, but he conceived that he might have a
murderous instinct develop.

He endeavoured to enumerate the especial happenings and remarks of the
day. Impossible! It had been his intention to keep a diary. He did not
think he could do the opportunity justice, though he would try. Besides,
it would never do to record many of the speeches of these range-riders.

Suddenly he felt something tugging at the back of his bed, at the
blankets under him. It made him start violently and instinctively
frightened him. A coyote! Did the scavengering beggars steal that close?
He yelled with much meaning but poor articulation.

"GIOUT!"

Then he popped up. He could see a few feet back of his bed. Nothing
there! Perhaps it might have been a gopher or a rattlesnake about which
the boys had remarked after supper. With a boot he beat around back of
his coat, which he had folded up for a pillow. Then with a still shaking
hand he felt back there. And it came in contact with a rope. It had been
tied to an end of the blanket over him, and this had been drawn half off.
"Well, by gosh!" he muttered.

From all around strange sounds arose. He sat there amazed until he
grasped the situation. The cowboys had played their first trick on him
and were now trying to hold in a fiendish and bursting glee. Presently
from way over near the chuck-wagon broke out a raucous "Haw! Haw! Haw!"

Jim untied the rope and flung the end as far away as he could.
Sons-of-guns, he called them to himself! But nevertheless, he was
tickled. They would make life miserable for him. Nevertheless, he took
this as an augury of good luck. His uncle had assured him that if they
played tricks on him there was hope. If they suffered him in silence and
let him severely alone the case was hopeless. Jim lay back happy, despite
his chagrin at being scared half out of his wits, and went to sleep.

Next morning he hobbled around cheerfully without mentioning the incident
and went to work. That turned out to be a trying day, particularly in
keeping at it. Upon returning to camp he washed his blistered hands, and
then thinking to rest a little before supper, he sought his bed.

But it was gone. At first he imagined he had mistaken the place, but he
soon reassured himself that he was right about the location. After a few
moments he discovered his bed-roll hight up in the pine tree, swinging by
the rope. Jim swore under his breath. If he had to climb that tree,
crippled as he was, it would afford these devilish cowboys a treat. He
just would not attempt it. They stood and sat around, waiting for call to
supper, and obviously they were aware of his predicament.

"Oh, were I a little bir-r-rd," sang one of them.

Jim 'decided he would make one gigantic bluff. He had been pretty lucky
so far. Why not play that to the limit? Whereupon he went to his pack.
and taking up his Colt, he aimed steadily at the rope above his head and
shot. He cut the rope. As he gasped, the bed-roll fell with a heavy
thump. Jim flipped the gun in a way he had learned through a week's
practice, and carelessly tossed it over to his pack. Then approaching the
cowboys he said, seriously, "I sure hope none of you hombres make me
throw a gun on you."

They seemed to be a wide-eyed and stricken group.

"Boss. I shore ain't goin' to do thet little thing," spoke up Curly.

So they had to score another for the tenderfoot. That night around the
camp fire they were thoughtful, and whispered behind Jim's back. He went
to bed knowing the war was on, and that he was in for utter rout. Ring
Locke had said cowboys when pressed would do anything under the sun. Jim
had thought it all out, and he could only regulate his conduct according
to theirs. The main issue for him was to earn their respect.

Nothing happened that night nor the next day, but on the following night
he was awakened by a terrible crash and jar. He lay there shaking. The
stars above showed more numerously. The pine tree must have been struck
by lightning, for its branches no longer sheltered him. It had fallen.
But there could not have been a stroke of lightning, because the sky gave
no sign at all of storm. The cowboys bad provided the lightning. Probably
they had sawed the tree nearly through during the day, when he was
absent, and at night they had pulled it down. The tips of one of the
branches lay across Jim's feet, which he moved after some effort. Nice
gentle cowboys! Not for a long while did Jim go to sleep after that.

By the end of the week they had finished the drift fence town-ward to
where it joined Traft's ranch. They had also about finished Jim. Saturday
night he spent alone in camp, except for the cook, who plainly showed a
solicitude for Jim. Sunday he was to have gone in to see Uncle Jim, but
he never left the camp. Late afternoon the cowboys began to straggle back
in twos and threes, some of them still pretty drunk. Jim resented that.
He watched them come, careful to see who were the sober ones. Bud
returned, holding Hack Jocelyn in his saddle; and Curly performed a like
office for Cherry Winters. Drink manifestly was Hack's besetting sin, for
he presented a sombre and ugly figure. On the other hand, Cherry was
funny. Curly handled him roughly, even to tripping him up twice; still,
in spite of it Cherry succeeded in getting to Jim.

"Bosh, ish all ri'," he said, waving a deprecatory hand. "Ben lookin' at
redeyes, but I'm sober's jedge. An' I wanna tell you. Lash night--"

Curly dragged him away. At sunset Jim took a long walk, which in a way
mitigated his mood. The supper gong recalled him. As he neared camp his
keen ears caught Curly saying: "Wal, it's shore eatin' into my gizzard. I
reckon he's pretty decent, considerin'."

"Curly, somethin' shore is eatin' you," returned Hack Jocelyn,
sarcastically. "He's got no kick comin'. Ain't we buldin' this drift
fence? What the hell!"

Jim wondered if this talk referred to him or his uncle, and after a
moment's consideration decided it was about himself. Curly, then, as Jim
had grasped before, was leaning a little toward championing him. It was
the one bright spot in a gloomy week-end.

On Monday at dawn they broke camp and drove south to the edge of the
timber, perhaps another five miles. Here the camp site delighted Jim. It
was on a grassy bench just where the pines began, and near a beautiful
spring. The bare despoiled land they had traversed was no longer visible.
This drive, of course, included the dropping of bales of wire along the
way; and that, with the unpacking and making camp, constituted the day's
work.

At this camp matters came to a pass where Jim grew beside himself with
rage. And the incident that capped the climax was where Curly Prentiss,
after gradually and perceptibly leaning toward friendship for Jim,
suddenly became alienated. Jim laid this to influence of a clique of four
in the Diamond outfit, the ringleader being Hack Jocelyn. And it happened
that Jim had begun to need some little evidence of reward for his
unswerving patience and endurance.

"Curly," he said, "you've got a saffron streak as wide as the road."

"Boss, is thet thar relatin' to my work on this heah drift fence?"
queried Prentiss, with a keen glance on two of the cowboys who certainly
heard Jim.

"No. I'm bound to admit you do more than your share," rejoined Jim.

"Wal, then, I'm takin' your remark as personal, an' if you ain't just as
yellow you'll step out with me."

"Good Heavens, Curly!" ejaculated Jim, wearily. "You wouldn't make it a
matter of guns?"

"Wal, in this heah country a man has to protect himself."

"Ahuh. And how in the hell am I to protect myself from most of this
devilish bunch without a friend'?" queried Jim, bitterly. "I've been
banking on you right along. You have helped me a good deal, though you
may not know it. I like you. And I swear you were beginning to like me.
Then all of a sudden you turn cold and mean."

"So that's why you called me saffron?" asked Prentiss, with curious
little flecks of light in his eyes.

"Yes, it is."

"Wal, the outfit put it up to me this heah way. They accused me of bein'
friends with you. An' they made me cut the deck. You or the Diamond."

"So that is it," replied Jim. "I never thought of that. Naturally you'd
stick to them."

"Shore. An' I'm demandin' an apology before the outfit," said Curly, with
the air of one who held a whip hand.

It was on Jim's lips, of course, to beg Curly's pardon, when something
perverse prompted him.

"Suppose I won't?"

"Wal, then, as you cain't stand fer a little gun-play, I'll have to lick
you," drawled Curly.

"You'll have to?"

"Shore will."

"Curly, you couldn't do that if you tried it every day we are building
this fence."

The retort, as amazing to Jim as to Curly, came out of the past days of
Jim's turmoil.

"Mister Traft, I'm shore differin' with you. An' I'll show you pronto."

"Well, let's get the apology over first," replied Jim, dryly.

It happened to be just before supper-time and all the boys were there.
Jim did not require to be told that they had heard about what he had
called Curly.

"Fellows, I've a word to say," he began, and the slow sly glances he drew