Part 2

“The even losses to the odd and the red defeats the black,” the croupier chanted. “The middle column pays the gambler and the others pay the house. Place your bets for another turn.” He twisted the wheel and snapped the ivory marble in the reverse direction. “The little ivory ball--she spins! the flitting pill of fortune. Off again on the giddy whirl.”

He glanced expectantly at the two chief players but they had explored their pockets and failed to invoice sufficient resources with which to purchase a white chip between the two of them.

“Odd how rapid a man can shed it if he sets out to exert himself,” Carver commented.

Lassiter grinned and turned suddenly toward the door. It occurred to Carver that the youth was starting forth to retrieve that twenty-dollar reserve which was cached in the dresser drawer.

“Don’t you,” he admonished; but Lassiter had passed out the door.

Carver made a move to follow but met Carl Mattison, town marshal, coming in.

“You recollect that extra saddle,” Carver greeted without parley. “The one you was admiring, with all those silver trappings. If you still admire it fifty dollars’ worth----”

“Sold,” said the marshal and counted out the money. “Send it round to my room above the Boston Store.”

“I would,” said Carver, “only my delivery boy, the shiftless little wart, is out somewhere spinning his top. Here’s the key to my shack. You saunter past and collect it.”

Carver headed for Lassiter’s room. The door stood ajar and as he entered he observed a stooping figure whose hand was busily exploring the drawer of the dresser.

“We won’t need that twenty,” Carver said. “Let her ride where she is.”

The figure straightened and whirled to face him in the dim light. It was Noll Lassiter, not Bart.

“Where’s Bart?” Carver asked.

“Haven’t seen him,” Noll returned.

“Then where’s Bart’s twenty dollars?” Carver inquired. “I mistrust that you’ve got it--and I want it. S’pose you hand it over.”

“Make it out of here!” Noll ordered. “This is my room and I don’t want you in it.”

“Someway you haven’t inspired me with any ardent fancy,” Carver stated. “Right at present the feeling is mild, but it will grow acute if you keep exploring in that drawer for Bart’s last twenty.”

Lassiter made a swift move behind him but his arms fell back at his sides as Carver’s gun was jammed suddenly against his floating ribs.

“Tut, tut,” Carver admonished. “You’re way too awkward for that sort of thing. Sometime you’ll do that and some excitable soul will shoot you three or four times while you’re starting your wind-up.”

He removed Noll’s weapon and tossed both it and his own upon the bed.

“Now we can converse at our ease until Bart comes,” he said.

But Lassiter, angered beyond precaution, jumped for him the instant he relinquished the weapons, and being heavier than Carver he sought to bear him down by sheer weight. Carver rocked his head with two solid smashes but Noll sought only to come to grips where he could exert his strength, clutching at his opponent instead of returning his blows. They fought in cramped quarters and Carver could not step to either side lest he should give Lassiter access to the two guns reposing on the bed. The huge paws clamped on his shoulders and Lassiter crushed him back against the dresser. Carver elevated one knee between them, planted his boot against the other’s paunch and propelled him violently doorward. With a single step he retrieved his gun with intent to discourage Lassiter’s return, but he had no need of it. The big man’s head collided forcibly with the door jamb and he sprawled in a limp heap just outside in the narrow corridor.

Bart Lassiter, just mounting the stairway, witnessed this strange exit of his relative. He peered inside and discovered Carver, so he entered and seated himself on the edge of the bed, twisting a cigarette while he sought to reconcile the evidence before his eyes with the mental picture of the empty room as he had left it not five minutes past.

“Incidentally, there seems to be a corpse on the threshold,” he presently observed. “What did it die of?”

“General malignancy that set in right after birth and just now came to a head,” Carver diagnosed. “He was prospecting for your cache when I arrived.”

“He’d already located it,” Bart stated. “It was gone when I came up. Likely he came back to hunt for more as I went down, and your trails converged, sort of. Wellman said you’d just turned up the stairs, so I came on back.”

He crossed over to inspect the sprawled figure in the hallway.

“I’d say he was totally defunct,” he reported; but as if to refute this assertion Noll stirred an arm and grunted. “Unfortunately resuscitation is already setting in,” Bart revised his statement. “Let’s be off before he opens one eye and tries to borrow ten.”

An hour later the proceeds derived from the sale of the saddle had faded in the face of the bank’s per cent and their finances were totally exhausted except for a few small coins in Carver’s pocket. Lassiter leaned rather heavily against the bar in the Silver Dollar and straightened himself with an effort.

“It’s time for me to dangle,” he announced. “Hate to break up the party and all that sort of thing, but I’m overdue right now. Meet you here in an hour.”

He proceeded toward the door which opened into the adjoining restaurant but Carver overhauled him while he was yet some ten feet from his goal.

“Now don’t you go trickling out on me,” he reproved. “I’ll be gone in an hour--riding off for three weeks. Stay with me till then and we’ll both move out together.”

Lassiter turned uncertainly and Carver, looking past him, discovered that the swinging door into the restaurant stood half-open. The young girl framed in the doorway was gazing straight into his eyes. Oddly enough his first thought took the form of an intense desire to expend large sums of money in buying things for her, this impulse coupled with a swift regret that such amounts as he wished to squander were not for the moment available. The eyes that looked back into his were gray eyes, bordering on blue; and he gathered that they regarded him with a mixture of doubt and pity. He straightened resentfully, never having been doubted and refusing to be pitied, flooded with a sense of having been detected in some bit of wickedness. For the first time in his life his own eyes dropped before the direct gaze of another’s yet in his whole past career there was not one deed for which he felt any particular regret or shame. He lifted his eyes again with a hint of defiance, but found himself staring at the blank swinging door; in that split-second of averted glance the vision had disappeared, leaving him with a vague impression of its unreality,--and with a pronounced disinclination for continuing the party. Lassiter had not seen, and Carver dispelled the blond youth’s hesitation.

“Maybe we’d better call it a day,” he said. “See you when I get back from the Strip.”

Carver was conscious of a distaste for his surroundings, once the door had closed behind his companion. These carousals in town always palled on him in the end, giving way to the urge to straddle a horse and be off through the clean outdoors while the wind fanned the fumes from his head, but heretofore this state of mind had come about through gradual transition instead of descending upon him in a single second as had been the case to-day.

He gravitated to the roulette wheel through force of habit and risked his handful of small coins, playing absently and placing his bets without care or consideration. Now just why, he wondered, had he been struck with a wild wish to buy things for a girl he had never glimpsed before in his life. He was not conscious that she had been shabbily clothed, for to save his immortal soul he could not have testified to the color, texture or state of preservation of one single item of her attire, but someway he felt that she was needing things and he wanted to see that these things were provided. He cashed in his few remaining chips and the banker handed him a single silver dollar in return.

II

Carver repaired to the shack to retrieve his horse and as he rode back through town he observed a group round the town well in the center of the wide main street. Mattison had laid aside his personal pursuits and had donned his official rôle of town marshal, in which capacity he was instructing Bart Lassiter in no uncertain terms as to the impropriety of watering his horse from the oaken bucket attached to the well rope.

“Water him from the trough,” he ordered.

“After all those Cherokee ponies have been dipping their noses in it?” Bart demanded. “Not this horse.”

“That bucket is for folks,” the marshal patiently explained.

“An’ this horse is folks,” Lassiter insisted. He continued to extend the brimming bucket horseward with his left hand. The spectators shifted, recalling that Mattison’s predecessor had fallen in a street fight near this same well. There was no ill-feeling between the two men, but neither of them would back down publicly under pressure. Carver glanced aside as a voice called Bart’s name. The girl of the Silver Dollar was peering from a window above a store, her gaze riveted on the group at the well.

“Here’s two of my friends working up a grievance over well water,” Carver said, dropping from his horse. “Wherever did the pair of you acquire this sudden interest in it? I’m surprised at you.”

“If this party’s a friend of yours, why you take him,” said Mattison. “He won’t mind me. Let him water his horse till the well goes dry.”

“No such thing,” Lassiter gracefully declined. “I wouldn’t think of letting the critter slosh his muzzle in the town bucket.”

The marshal moved off and Carver reflected that the girl’s sudden appearance in the doorway of the Silver Dollar had been occasioned by Bart Lassiter’s failure to fulfill his appointment. It also accounted for Bart’s hesitation as they had stepped out of the Golden Eagle earlier in the day. He had halted to avoid meeting the girl, not to avoid Freel, as Carver had previously supposed; and Bart’s grievance against Freel rose from this same source, for undoubtedly the girl who was being piloted down the street by the marshal at the moment of their exit was the same who had later stirred Carver so strangely by her unexpected appearance in the doorway.

“A lady was calling your name from a window a minute back,” he said.

“Likely it was Molly,” Bart returned. “That’s who that ten spot was destined for--the one Noll lifted first. That twenty I planted later would also have found its way to her except for Noll. She’s a sweet kid, Molly, but she’s worried sick every minute I’m out of sight.”

Carver was conscious of a sense of irritation toward his friend, a vague resentment at this implied familiarity between the boy and the lady of the doorway.

“Then I wouldn’t be letting her wait around,” he reproved. “Damned if I would.”

“But a man can’t tag his sister every living second,” Bart expostulated. “I ask you now!”

“No,” said Carver. “Maybe not.” His irritation had evaporated. “But if she was my sister I’d put in considerable time with her.”

The brother grinned unrepentantly.

“All right; you do that,” he urged. “Maybe she’ll take to worrying about you instead of losing sleep over me. Appears to me like a nice arrangement for all hands concerned.”

The girl appeared suddenly beside Lassiter and rested a hand on his arm.

“Put up your horse and stay here with me,” she urged.

“Can’t, Molly,” Bart declined. “I promised the boys I’d go and they’re waiting now. We’re due to help Crowfoot gather a little bunch of beef stuff to-morrow and we’ll have to ride all night if we make Turkey Creek by morning.”

The girl turned to Carver.

“Thanks for interceding with your friend the marshal,” she said. “But please go now. You’ve had Bart to yourself all day.”

Carver nodded assent, mounted and rode off down the street. As he passed the Silver Dollar he felt the single coin in his pocket.

“That’s what I’m capitalized at,” he said. “Just one little measly silver dollar. That’s my invoice. This morning I could have added a horse, a house and an extra saddle to the statement. Now I’m out the saddle and owe Hinman a sum sufficient to offset the value of both horse and house. I’d sell under the hammer for a single dollar bill. The lady read my face value at a glance and dismissed me offhand without another look.”

He saw the two elder Lassiter brothers riding south at the next street intersection. It was quite dark when he cleared the town and as he rode on through the night he was conscious of a mild dissatisfaction. He drew forth his last coin and addressed it.

“I’ve rode into town with a many a dollar on me,” he said. “But this is about the first time I ever rode out and packed one away with me. That shows I’m growing more conservative right along. You must be a lucky little devil or else you wouldn’t have stayed with me till I got out of town.” He slipped the coin back into his pocket. “Little lonely dollar, you must mount up to a million.”

He heard the low rumble of animal voices and knew that Hinman’s cows were being held on the bed ground somewhere just ahead. The old man greeted him as he rode up.

“I’m sending Bradshaw and four others with you,” he announced. “One of the boys is holding the pack outfit back behind. He’ll follow. I’ll help you get ’em on their feet and moving.”

The men spread out at intervals to the north of the herd, riding along its edge and crowding the cows on the near fringe to their feet. They worked cautiously, for any slight commotion of an unusual nature, the weird flap of a garment or any cry too startling, might serve to throw a few cows into a panic which would be swiftly communicated to the rest and put the whole herd off the bed ground in a mad stampede. Their chief concern was to prevent a disastrous night run. The affair was skilfully handled and the near fringe of cows rose reluctantly, crowded back through the ranks of their reclining fellows and raising them in turn till eventually the whole herd was up and drifting south.

The moon rose sharp and clear as they crossed into the Strip and for hours they forged slowly ahead, their course a trifle south of west. When they had covered ten miles the forward drift of the herd was arrested and the tired cows bedded down at once.

“From now on they’re in your hands, son,” Hinman said to Carver. “I’ll back any deal you make with the outfits off to the south, so play her the best you know.”

He turned his horse back toward the State line and left Carver to solve the problem as best he might. Their present stand was in the quarantine belt, a strip some miles wide which paralleled the State line; this to protect the stock of the Kansas cowmen from Texas fever and other contagious afflictions so prevalent among the trail herds brought up from the south. All southern cattle must be held in this quarantine area until declared free of all disease before proceeding on their northward course to market. This was the off-season for the pastoral transportation of trail herds from the Texas cow country, and the only official intervention against which Carver must guard was the possible appearance of one of the infrequent cavalry patrols sent out from old Fort Darlington on the southern extremity of the Strip.

The unowned lands were tenanted only by a few big cow outfits whose owners had made satisfactory arrangements with the Cherokees, paying their tribute in the shape of grazing fees, a custom so long established that it was recognized by Federal authorities, and government agents now collected the money and passed it on to the territory tribes.

Carver stood his turn on first guard and as he rode round the herd he pondered the problem in hand and sought for a solution which would give him an insight into Hinman’s purpose. It was not so much from the authorities but from the common themselves that he might expect prompt interference. Those who leased range in the Strip did not often wait upon the slow process of official intervention when outside brands encroached upon their interests but took the law into their own hands at once. Hinman was well aware of that condition, Carver reflected. He circled the herd and sang to soothe his charges on the bed ground. Off across he could hear the voice of another night guard raised in song. He produced his one last coin and studied it in the moonlight.

“Little lonely dollar, you must mount up to a million,” he chanted. “And we’ll mount the first step upward if only I can fathom what Hinman expects of me. He don’t care a dime about saving taxes on this bunch, and he knows that I can see the costs will outweigh the profits two to one even if everything goes through without a quiver. He and Nate Younger, while they get along personal, have been whetting their tomahawks for each other as far back as I can remember. Now he leads us down here due north of the center of old Nate’s leases and stresses the point that I can maybe trade deals with any outfit off to the south--and Nate the only possible one I could deal with from this point. What time I haven’t worked for Hinman, I’ve been working for Nate, and Old Joe knows that Nate’s the best friend I’ve got outside himself. Now what’s he aiming at?”

His shift on guard duty was half over before he found the slightest ray of light on the problem.

“Joe must know that Nate will pounce down on us right off,” he mused. “If they open the Strip for settlement, like Joe predicts, then Younger will be forced out of the game. Now just why does Hinman provide him with this opportunity for a big final disturbance with all the odds on Nate’s side? He couldn’t have done it accidental and it appears more and more like he’s deliberately throwing himself wide open.”

His mind traveled back over the events of the day and settled upon the scene which had transpired near the town well just prior to his departure.

“There now,” he suddenly remarked. “That’s sure enough the answer. Bart and Mattison didn’t want to carry that altercation to a finish but neither one would back down with folks looking on. These two stubborn old pirates are likely in a similar frame of mind. It’s always seemed to me someway, that they didn’t either one feel half so hostile toward the other as they made it appear. Joe’s giving Nate one final chance to show his hand--to take a whack at him or quit, hoping to cancel this old feud before Nate’s crowded out. He didn’t send me down here to keep out of trouble but shoved me right into it, knowing I’d do my best to make it as light as possible when it came. That’s all the idea I’ve got to work on.”

The men breakfasted in the first light of day and the cows were allowed to scatter through the breaks on the far side of the creek.

“You boys hold ’em within fair limits,” Carver instructed Bradshaw. “I’ll join you up here this evening. If a patrol should jump you by any off chance, you just explain that you’re driving them down to the Half Diamond H and laid over here a day to rest them.”

“They’d be sure to believe us,” Bradshaw commented skeptically. “Old Nate Younger wouldn’t let a Kansas cow graze on the Half Diamond H for the price of it. Leastways not one of Hinman’s.”

“He’s maybe changed his mind,” said Carver. “I’ll ride down and see.”

He headed for the home ranch of the Half Diamond H, located on a branch of Cabin Creek some miles above that stream’s confluence with the Salt Fork of the Arkansas. Younger met him halfway, a rider having already reported the presence of the herd.

“Now just what are you doing with a bunch of Joe Hinman’s cows in the quarantine strip and messing along the edge of my range?” he demanded. “You’ve rode for me on enough different occasions to know better than that.”

“They just came fogging down here of their own accord,” Carver testified. “And I came after them.”

“I’ll see that you get plenty of help when it comes to running them back,” Younger offered. He waved an arm toward a group of approaching riders. “Here come my boys now. I’ll throw ’em in behind those cows and jam them back across the line and scatter ’em over the whole west half of Kansas; or else take charge and hold ’em till I can get a detachment sent up from Fort Darlington to keep the whole mangy layout in quarantine till they’re fined more’n their market price. I’ll----”

“I wouldn’t adopt either one of those courses you just mentioned Nate,” Carver counselled. “If a patrol jumped us I was going to proclaim that Joe was short of range and that you, being an old friend of his, had volunteered to run this bunch on your leases till the grass greened up next month. That was my idea.”

“I’ve got another idea that beats yours all to hell,” Younger retorted. “About fifteen years back a bunch of my stuff drifted off in a storm and fed out a few sections of Joe Hinman’s land that had blowed clear of snow. He thought I’d shoved ’em on there to eat him out. This is the first real good chance I’ve had to play even for what shape he left those cows of mine in after hazing ’em at a run through a foot of snow. What I’ll do to this bunch of Box T steers will be sufficient.”

He motioned his grinning riders to fall in behind him as he headed up country with Carver.

“Then it does look as if I’d soon be out of a job,” Carver said, “if you go and mess up my detail. Maybe you’d take me on for the summer.”

“You was top hand for me once,” Younger returned. “And you could be again if you’d only stay at it. Anyway, I’ll put you on for the summer.”

“This season will likely see the last big round-up of all history,” Carver predicted. “And I want to be part of it. I’d sort of planned to go in with your wagon. I guess this is the last. The order is out to comb every hoof from the unowned lands.”

The old man’s face clouded. Two years before all cowmen had been ordered to clear their stock from the Cherokee Strip. They had grimly refused, and now the order had been issued again.