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  Sanderson waited—for only a few minutes actually, but the time seemed longer. Then, just when he was mentally debating an impulse to climb to the top of the gully, to see if the rider was in sight, he heard a sound as of a heavy body crashing through some underbrush, and saw two riders skirting the edge of the arroyo near him.

  They halted their horses back of the spruce trees near the arroyo edge. The rank undergrowth in the timber prevented them seeing Sanderson’s horse—which was further concealed by the thicket of alder. The men, however, did not look into the arroyo. Their attention and interest appeared to be centered upon the actions of the first horseman. Sitting erect in their saddles, they shaded their eyes with their hands and gazed northward.

  After a short look, one of the men laughed, unpleasantly.

  “Sneakin’—he is,” said the one who laughed. “Knows we’re campin’ on his trail, an’ reckons on givin’ us the slip. I never thought Bill would go back on his friends thataway. We’ll make him sweat, damn him!”

  The other cursed, also. “Hoggin’ it, he is,” he said. “I ain’t never trusted him. He won’t divvy, eh? Well, he won’t need it where he’s goin’.”

  Both laughed. Then one said, coldly: “Well, I reckon we won’t take chances on losin’ him again—like we did last night. We’ll get him right now!”

  They urged their horses away from the edge of the gully. Sanderson could hear the clatter of hoofs, receding. He had heard, plainly, all the conversation between the two.

  There was a grin of slight relief on Sanderson’s face. The men were not aiming at him, but at the first rider. It was clear that all were concerned in a personal quarrel which was no concern of Sanderson’s. It was also apparent to Sanderson that the two men who had halted at the edge of the arroyo were not of the type that contributed to the peace and order of the country.

  Plainly, they were of the lower strata of riffraff which had drifted into the West to exact its toll from a people who could not claim the protection of a law that was remote and impotent.

  Sanderson suspected that the first rider had been concerned in some lawless transaction with the other two, and that the first rider had decamped with the entire spoils. That much was indicated by the words of the two. Dire punishment for the first man was imminent.

  Sanderson had no sympathy for the first rider. He felt, though, a slight curiosity over the probable outcome of the affair, and so, working rapidly, he broke camp, threw saddle and bridle on the white horse, strapped his slicker to the cantle of the saddle, and rode the brown horse up the slope of the arroyo, taking the direction in which the three men had disappeared.

  CHAPTER II

  A MAN’S CURIOSITY

  By the time Sanderson urged the brown horse up the crest of the slope, the men he had determined to follow were far out in the desert. Sanderson could see them, though the distance was considerable, riding the crest of a ridge, directly northeastward. As that was following the general direction in which Sanderson wanted to travel he was highly pleased.

  “They’re company,” he told himself as he rode; “an’ I’ve been a heap lonesome.”

  The men were not traveling fast. At times, when the first rider was compelled to traverse high ground, Sanderson could see him—horse and rider faintly outlined against the sky. Sanderson would note the figure of the first rider, then watch the point at which the first rider appeared until the others reached that point. Then, noting the elapsed time, he could estimate the distance at which the pursuers followed.

  “I reckon they’re gainin’ on him,” was Sanderson’s mental comment when an hour later he saw the first rider appear for a moment on the sky line, vanish, reappear for an instant, only to be followed within a few minutes by the figures of the other men.

  Sanderson was closing up the space that separated him from the two men, and by that medium he knew they were not traveling rapidly, for the brown horse was loping slowly. Thus he knew that the first man was not yet aware that he was being followed.

  But some time later to Sanderson’s ears was borne the faint, muffled report of a firearm, and he smiled solemnly.

  “That first guy will know, now,” he told himself. Sanderson kept steadily on. In half an hour he heard half a dozen rifle reports in quick succession, He could see the smoke puffs of the weapons, and he knew the pursuit was over.

  The second riders had brought the first to bay in a section of broken country featured by small, rock-strewn hills. By watching the smoke balloon upward, Sanderson could determine the location of the men.

  It seemed to Sanderson that the two had separated, one swinging westward and the other eastward, in an endeavor to render hazardous any concealment the other might find. It was the old game of getting an enemy between two fires, and Sanderson’s lips curved with an appreciative grin as he noted the fact.

  “Old-timers,” he said.

  It was not Sanderson’s affair. He told himself that many times as he rode slowly forward. To his knowledge the country was cursed with too many men of the type the two appeared to be; and as he had no doubt that the other man was of that type also, they would be doing the country a service were they to annihilate one another.

  Sanderson, though, despite his conviction, felt a pulse of sympathy for the first rider. It was that emotion which impelled him to keep going cautiously forward when, by all the rules of life in that country, he should have stood at a distance to allow the men to fight it out among themselves.

  Sanderson’s interest grew as the fight progressed. When he had approached as far as he safely could without endangering his own life and that of Streak, he dismounted at the bottom of a small hill, trailed the reins over Streak’s head and, carrying his rifle, made his way stealthily to the crest of the hill. There, concealed behind an irregularly shaped boulder, he peered at the combatants.

  He had heard several reports while dismounting and ascending the hill, and by the time he looked over the crest he saw that the battle was over. He saw the three men grouped about a cluster of rocks on a hill not more than a hundred yards distant. Two of the men were bending over the third, who was stretched out on his back, motionless. It appeared to Sanderson that the two men were searching the pockets of the other, for they were fumbling at the other’s clothing and, seemingly, putting something into their own pockets.

  Sanderson scowled. Now that the fight was over, he was at liberty to investigate; the ethics of life in the country did not forbid that—though many men had found it as dangerous as interference.

  Sanderson stood up, within full view of the two men, and hailed them.

  “What’s bitin’ you guys?” he said.

  The two men wheeled, facing Sanderson. The latter’s answer came in the shape of a rifle bullet, the weapon fired from the hip of one of the men—a snapshot.

  Sanderson had observed the movement almost as soon as it had begun, and he threw himself head-long behind the shelter of the rock at his side as the bullet droned over his head.

  If Sanderson had entertained any thought of the two men being representatives of the law, trailing a wrongdoer, that thought would have been dispelled by the action of the men in shooting at him. He was now certain the men were what he had taken them to be, and he grinned felinely as he squirmed around until he got into a position from which he could see them. But when he did get into position the men had vanished.

  However, Sanderson was not misled. He knew they had secreted themselves behind some of the rocks in the vicinity, no doubt to wait a reasonable time before endeavoring to discover whether the bullet had accomplished its sinister object.

  Sanderson’s grin grew broader. He had the men at a disadvantage. Their horses, he had observed before calling to them, were in a little depression at the right—and entirely out of reach of the men.

  To get to them they would have to expose themselves on an open stretch between the spot where the horses were concealed and the hill on which they were secreted, and on the open stretch they would be fair
targets for Sanderson.

  The men had brought Sanderson into the fight, and he no longer had any scruples. He was grimly enjoying himself, and he laid for an hour, flat on his stomach behind the rock, his rifle muzzle projecting between two medium-sized stones near the base of the large rock, his eye trained along the barrel, watching the crest of the hill on which the men were concealed.

  The first man was dead. Sanderson could see him, prone, motionless, rigid.

  Evidently the two men were doubtful. Certainly they were cautious. But at the end of an hour their curiosity must have conquered them, for Sanderson, still alert and watchful, saw a dark blot slowly appear from around the bulging side of a rock.

  The blot grew slowly larger, until Sanderson saw that it appeared to be the crown of a hat. That it was a hat he made certain after a few seconds of intent scrutiny; and that it was a hat without any head in it he was also convinced, for he held his fire. An instant later the hat was withdrawn. Then it came out again, and was held there for several seconds.

  Sanderson grinned. “I reckon they think I’m a yearlin’,” was his mental comment.

  There was another long wait. Sanderson could picture the two men arguing the question that must deeply concern them: “Which shall be the first to show himself?”

  “I’d bet a million they’re drawin’ straws,” grinned Sanderson.

  Whether that method decided the question Sanderson never knew. He knew, however, that a hat was slowly coming into view around a side of the rock, and he was positive that this time there was a head in the hat. He could not have told now he knew there was a head in the hat, but that was his conviction.

  The hat appeared slowly, gradually taking on definite shape in Sanderson’s eyes, until, with a cold grin, he noted some brown flesh beneath it, and a section of dark beard.

  Sanderson did not fire, then. The full head followed the hat, then came a man’s shoulders. Nothing happened. The man stepped from behind the rock and stood out in full view. Still nothing happened.

  The man grinned.

  “I reckon we got him, Cal,” he said. His voice was gloating. “I reckoned I’d got him; he tumbled sorta offish—like it had got him in the guts. That’s what I aimed for, anyway. I reckon he done suffered some, eh?” He guffawed, loudly.

  Then the other man appeared. He, too, was grinning.

  “I reckon we’ll go see. If you got him where you said you got him, I reckon he done a lot of squirmin’. Been followin’ us—you reckon?”

  They descended the slope of the hill, still talking. Evidently, Sanderson’s silence had completely convinced them that they had killed him.

  But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock near Sanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson’s rifle projecting from between the two rocks.

  For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene the man discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time he missed the target.

  Sanderson, however, did not miss. His rifle went off, and the man fell without a sound. The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for an instant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson’s bullet had come, he raised his rifle.

  Sanderson’s weapon crashed again. The second man shuddered, spun violently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.

  Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly. He knew where his bullets had gone, and he took no precautions when he emerged from his hiding place and approached the men.

  “That’s all, for you, I reckon,” he said.

  Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other man. A bullet fairly in the center of the man’s forehead told eloquently of the manner of his death.

  The man’s face was not of so villainous a cast as the others. There were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of dissipation.

  “I reckon this guy was all wool an’ a yard wide, in his time,” said Sanderson; “but from the looks of him he was tryin’ to live it down. Now, we’ll see what them other guys was goin’ through his clothes for.”

  Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter’s coat he drew a letter—faded and soiled, as though it had been read much. There was another letter—a more recent one, undoubtedly, for the paper was in much better condition.

  Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most soiled one. He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents and read:

  MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

  Tucson, Arizona.

  DEAR BROTHER WILL:

  The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson. That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long time. I suppose it is too much to hope that you are still there, but it is that hope which is making me write this letter.

  Will, father is dead. He died yesterday, right after I got here. He asked for you. Do you know what that means? It means he wanted you to come back, Will. Poor father, he didn’t really mean to be obstinate, you know.

  I shall not write any more, for I am not sure that you will ever read it. But if you do read it, you’ll come back, won’t you—or write? Please.

  Your loving sister,

  MARY BRANSFORD.

  The Double A Ranch.

  Union County, New Mexico.

  Sanderson finished reading the letter. Then folding it, he shoved it back into the envelope and gravely drew out the other letter. It bore a later date and was in the same handwriting:

  MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

  Tucson, Arizona.

  DEAR BROTHER WILL:

  I was so delighted to get your letter. And I am so eager to see you. It has been such a long, long time, hasn’t it? Fifteen years, isn’t it? And ten years since I even got a letter from you!

  I won’t remember you, I am sure, for I am only nineteen now, and you were only fifteen when you left home. And I suppose you have grown big and strong, and have a deep, booming voice and a fierce-looking mustache. Well, I shall love you, anyway. So hurry and come home.

  I am sending you a telegraph money order for one thousand dollars, for from the tone of your letter it seems things are not going right with you. Hurry home, won’t you?

  With love,

  Your sister,

  MARY.

  Sanderson finished reading the letter. He meditated silently, turning it over and over in his hands. The last letter was dated a month before. Evidently Bransford had not hurried.

  Sanderson searched all the other pockets, and discovered nothing of further interest. Then he stood for a long time, looking down at the man’s face, studying it, his own face expressing disapproval.

  “Mebbe it’s just as well that he didn’t get to the Double A,” he thought, noting the coarse, brutal features of the other.

  “If a girl’s got ideals it’s sometimes a mighty good thing the real guy don’t come along to disabuse them. William ain’t never goin’ to get to the Double A.”

  He buried the body in a gully, then he returned to the other men.

  Upon their persons he found about nine hundred dollars in bills of small denomination. It made a bulky package, and Sanderson stored it in his slicker. Then he mounted Streak, turned the animal’s head toward the northeast, and rode into the glaring sunshine of the morning.

  CHAPTER III

  “SQUARE” DEAL SANDERSON

  Three days later, still traveling northeastward, Sanderson felt he must be close to the Double A. Various signs and conclusions were convincing.

  In the first place, he had been a week on the trail, and estimating his pace conservatively, that time should bring him within easy riding distance of the place he had set out to seek. There were so many miles to be covered in so many days, and Streak was a prince of steady travelers.

  Besides, yesterday at dusk, Sanderson had passed through Las Vegas. Careful inquiry in the latter town had brought forth the intelligence that the Double A was a hundred and seventy-five miles northeastward.

 
; “Country’s short of cow-hands,” said Sanderson’s informer. “If you’re needin’ work, an’ forty a month looks good to you, why, I’d admire to take you on. I’m German, of the Flyin’ U, down the Cimarron a piece.”

  “Me an’ work has disagreed,” grinned Sanderson; and he rode on, meditating humorously over the lie.

  Work and Sanderson had never disagreed. Indeed, Sanderson had always been convinced that work and he had agreed too well in the past. Except for the few brief holidays that are the inevitable portion of the average puncher who is human enough to yearn for the relaxation of a trip to “town” once or twice a year, Sanderson and work had been inseparable for half a dozen years.

  Sanderson’s application had earned him the reputation of being “reliable” and “trustworthy”—two terms that, in the lexicon of the cow-country, were descriptive of virtues not at all common. In Sanderson’s case they were deserved—more, to them might have been added another, “straight.”

  Sanderson’s trip northeastward had resulted partly from a desire to escape the monotony of old scenes and familiar faces; and partly because one day while in “town” he had listened attentively to a desert nomad, or “drifter,” who had told a tale of a country where water was to be the magic which would open the gates of fortune to the eager and serious-minded.

  “That country’s goin’ to blossom!” declared the Drifter. “An’ the guy which gets in on the ground floor is goin’ to make a clean-up! They’s a range there—the Double A—which is right in the middle of things. A guy named Bransford owns her—an’ Bransford’s on his last legs. He’s due to pass out pronto, or I’m a gopher! He’s got a daughter there—Mary—which is a pippin, an’ no mistake! But she’s sure got a job on her hands, if the ol’ man croaks.

  “They’s a boy, somewheres, which ain’t no good I’ve heard, an’ if the girl hangs on she’s due for an uphill climb. She’ll have a fight on her hands too, with Alva Dale—a big rough devil of a man with a greedy eye on the whole country—an’ the girl, too, I reckon—if my eyes is any good. I’ve seen him look at her—oh, man! If she was any relation to me I’d climb Dale’s frame sure as shootin’!”