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  There had been more—the Drifter told a complete story. And Sanderson had assimilated it without letting the other know he had been affected.

  Nor had he mentioned to Burroughs—his employer—a word concerning the real reason for his desire to make a change. Not until he had written to Bransford, and received a reply, did he acquaint Burroughs with his decision to leave. As a matter of fact, Sanderson had delayed his leave-taking for more than a month after receiving Bransford’s letter, being reluctant, now that his opportunity had come, to sever those relations that, he now realized, had been decidedly pleasant.

  “I’m sure next to what’s eatin’ you,” Burroughs told him on the day Sanderson asked for his “time.” “You’re yearnin’ for a change. It’s a thing that gets hold of a man’s soul—if he’s got one. They ain’t no fightin’ it. I’m sure appreciatin’ what you’ve done for me, an’ if you decide to come back any time, you’ll find me a-welcomin’ you with open arms, as the sayin’ is. You’ve got a bunch of coin comin’—three thousand. I’m addin’ a thousand to that—makin’ her good measure. That’ll help you to start something.”

  Sanderson started northeastward without any illusions. A product of the Far Southwest, where the ability to live depended upon those natural, protective instincts and impulses which civilization frowns upon, Sanderson was grimly confident of his accomplishments—which were to draw a gun as quickly as any other man had ever drawn one, to shoot as fast and as accurately as the next man—or a little faster and more accurately; to be alert and self-contained, to talk as little as possible; to listen well, and to deal fairly with his fellow-men.

  That philosophy had served Sanderson well. It had made him feared and respected throughout Arizona; it had earned him the sobriquet “Square”—a title which he valued.

  Sanderson could not have told, however, just what motive had impelled him to decide to go to the Double A. No doubt the Drifter’s story regarding the trouble that was soon to assail Mary Bransford had had its effect, but he preferred to think he had merely grown tired of life at the Pig-Pen—Burrough’s ranch—and that the Drifter’s story, coming at the instant when the yearning for a change had seized upon him, had decided him.

  He had persisted in that thought until after the finding of the letters in William Bransford’s pockets; and then, staring down at the man’s face, he had realized that he had been deluding himself, and, that he was journeying northeastward merely because he was curious to see the girl whom the Drifter had so vividly described.

  Away back in his mind, too, there might have been a chivalrous desire to help her in the fight that was to come with Alva Dale. He had felt his blood surge hotly at the prospect of a fight, with Mary Bransford as the storm center; a passion to defend her had got into his soul; and a hatred for Alva Dale had gripped him.

  Whatever the motive, he had come, and since he had looked down into William Bransford’s face, he had become conscious of a mighty satisfaction. The two men who had trailed Bransford had been cold-blooded murderers, and he had avenged Bransford completely. That could not have happened if he had not yielded to the impulse to go to the Double A.

  He was glad he had decided to go. He was now the bearer of ill news, but he was convinced that the girl would want to know about her brother—and he must tell her. And now, too, he was convinced that his journey to the Double A had been previously arranged—by Fate, or whatever Providence controls the destinies of humans.

  And that conviction helped him to fight down the sense of guilty embarrassment that had afflicted him until now—the knowledge that he was deliberately and unwarrantedly going to the Double A to interfere, to throw himself into a fight with persons with whom he had no previous acquaintance, for no other reason than that his chivalrous instincts had prompted him.

  And yet his thoughts were not entirely serious as he rode. The situation had its humorous side.

  “Mostly nothin’ turns out as folks figure in the beginnin’,” he told himself. “Otherwise everything would be cut an’ dried, an’ there wouldn’t be a heap of fun in the world—for butters-in. An’ folks which scheme an’ plot, tryin’ to get things that belong to other folks, would have it too easy. There’s got to be folks that wander around, nosin’ into places that they shouldn’t. Eh, Streak?”

  Streak did not answer, and Sanderson rode on, smiling gravely.

  He made a dry camp that night in a sea of mesquite at the edge of a sand plain, although, he knew he could not now be far from the Double A range. And in the early light of the morning he found his judgment vindicated, for stretching before him, still in a northeasterly direction, he saw a great, green-brown level sweeping away from his feet and melting into some rimming mountains—a vast, natural basin of gigantic proportions.

  Sanderson was almost at the end of his journey, it was early morning, and he was in no hurry. He leisurely prepared his breakfast, sitting on a flat rock as he ate, and scanning the basin.

  Mere bigness had never impressed Sanderson; the West had shown him greater vistas than this mammoth basin. And yet his eyes glowed as he looked out and down at the country that lay, slumbering in the pure white light of the dawn.

  He saw, dotting the floor of the basin, the roofs of houses. From his height they seemed to be close together, but Sanderson was not misled, and he knew that they were separated by miles of virgin soil—of sagebrush and yucca, and soapweed and other desert weeds that needed not the magic of water to make them live.

  When Sanderson finally mounted Streak, the sun was up. It took Streak two hours to descend the slope leading down into the basin, and when once horse and rider were down, Sanderson dismounted and patted Streak’s moist flanks.

  “Some drop, eh, Streak?” he said. “But it didn’t fool us none. We knowed it was some distance, didn’t we? An’ they ain’t foolin’ us about the rest of it, are they? The Drifter said to head toward the Big Peak. The Double A would be right near there—in the foothills. Looks easy, don’t it? But I reckon we’ll have to hump ourselves to get there by feedin’ time, this noon, eh?”

  A little later, Streak having rested, Sanderson mounted and rode forward, toward the peak of a majestic mountain that loomed far above them.

  CHAPTER IV

  IH WHICH A MAN IS SYMPATHETIC

  It was shortly after noon when Sanderson, urging Streak to the crest of an isolated excrescence of earth surrounded by a level of sage and cactus, saw within several hundred yards of him a collection of buildings scattered on a broad plain that extended back several hundred yards farther until it merged into the rock-faced wall of a butte that loomed upward many feet.

  Sanderson halted Streak on the hilltop to glance around. The buildings, evidently, belonged to the Double A ranch, and the country was all the Drifter had claimed for it.

  The big stretch of plain—in fact, the entire basin—could be made fertile by the judicious use of water. Sanderson was not an engineer, but he had sufficient natural knowledge of land to enable him to distinguish good land from bad. Besides, near Phoenix he had inspected a gigantic irrigation project, and had talked long with the engineer in charge, and he had learned many things that would not have interested the average cowpuncher.

  There was a break in the wall of the butte south of the group of buildings, and out of the break Sanderson could see water tumbling and splashing from one rock ledge to another until it rushed down, forming quite a large stream as it struck the level and swirled hurriedly between two sloping banks near the buildings.

  From where Sanderson sat on Streak he could look far back into the break in the butte. The break made a sort of gorge, which widened as it receded, and Sanderson suspected the presence of another basin beyond the butte—in fact, the Drifter had told him of the presence of another basin.

  “She’d make some lake, if she was bottled up!” was Sanderson’s mental comment after a long examination.

  His gaze became centered upon the buildings and the level surrounding them.

  The bui
ldings were ordinary, but the country was rugged and picturesque.

  Some foothills—which Sanderson had seen from the far side of the basin that morning—rose from the level toward the south, their pine-clad slopes sweeping sharply upward—a series of gigantic land waves that seemed to leap upward and upward toward the higher peaks of some mountains behind them.

  Northward, fringing the edge of the plain that began at the foothills and stretched many miles, were other mountains; eastward the butte extended far, receding, irregular, its jagged walls forming a barrier; southwestward stretched the basin, in a gentle slope that was more noticeable to Sanderson now than it had been while he had been riding during the morning.

  The land around the buildings was fertile, for here was water which could be utilized. The land over which Sanderson had been riding all morning, though, was not so fertile; it needed the water that the stream splashing out of the gorge could give it, with proper human manipulation.

  All morning Sanderson’s thoughts had dwelt upon the serious lack of water in the basin. Now his thoughts grew definitely troubled.

  “There’s goin’ to be hell here—if this thing ain’t handled right. The Double A has got lots of water. The other fellows will be wantin’ it. They’ve got to have it.”

  Sanderson finished his inspection of the place. Then he spoke to Streak, and the big brown horse descended the slope of the hill, struck the level, and cantered slowly toward the ranch buildings near the river.

  Sanderson urged the brown horse toward the largest building of the group, and as he rode he straightened in the saddle, rearranged his neckerchief and brushed some of the dust from his clothing—for at this minute his thoughts went to the girl—whom he now knew he had come to see.

  Sanderson no longer tried to delude himself. A strange reluctance oppressed him, and a mighty embarrassment seized him; his face grew crimson beneath the coat of tan upon it, and his lungs swelled with a dread eagerness that had gripped him.

  “I reckon I’m a damn fool!” he told himself as he forced Streak onward; “I’m comin’ here, not knowin’ why, but still a-comin’.” He grinned, mirthlessly, but went forward.

  Heading toward the ranchhouse, he passed a huge building—the stable. Swinging wide around one of its corners, he was about to ride onward toward the ranchhouse, when out of the corners of his eyes he saw some men and horses grouped in front of the stable.

  He pulled Streak up with a jerk, swung the animal’s head around and faced the group. There were five horses, saddled and bridled, standing in front of the stable. Sanderson’s eyes noted that in one swift glance. But it was upon a man that Sanderson’s gaze centered as Streak came to a halt.

  The man dominated. There were other men standing in front of the stable—and two women. But the man upon whom Sanderson’s gaze rested was the compelling figure.

  He was big—rugged, muscular, massive. He saw Sanderson at about the instant Sanderson saw him, and he faced the latter, his chin thrusting, his lips pouting, his eyes gleaming with cold belligerence. He wore a gray woolen shirt, open at the throat, revealing a strong, wide chest.

  He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling magnetism that gripped one instantly. It affected Sanderson; the sight of the man caused Sanderson’s eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.

  And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died out of Sanderson’s eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of premeditated and deliberate hostility.

  For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men met, crossed, and neither man’s eyes wavered.

  Then the big man spoke, gruffly, shortly, coldly: “What do you want?”

  Sanderson smiled faintly. “You runnin’ things here?” he said, slowly.

  “Hell!” snarled the other, and stepped forward.

  “Because if you are,” resumed Sanderson, his voice bringing the big man to a halt, “you’re the man I’m wantin’ to do my gassin’ to. If you ain’t runnin’ things, why, I reckon you ain’t in the deal at all.”

  “Well, I’m runnin’ things,” sneered the other. “Tell me what you’re wantin’ or pull your freight out of here, pronto!”

  “I’m sure some disturbed over my mistake,” grinned Sanderson. “You couldn’t be anybody but Bransford, or you wouldn’t shoot off your gab that reckless. If you’re Bransford, I’m apologizin’ to you for talkin’ back to you. But if you ain’t Bransford, get off your hind legs an’ talk like a man!”

  The big man stiffened, and his eyes glittered malignantly. He moved his feet slightly apart and let his body fall into a crouch. He held that position, though, not moving a finger, when he saw a saturnine smile wreathe Sanderson’s lips, noted the slight motion with which Sanderson edged Streak around a little, caught the slow, gradual lifting of Sanderson’s shoulder—the right; which presaged the drawing of the heavy pistol that swung at Sanderson’s right hip.

  Both men held their positions for some seconds; and the slow, heavy breathing of the big man indicated his knowledge of the violence that impended—the violence that, plainly, Sanderson would not retreat from.

  Then the big man’s body began to relax, and a tinge of color came into his face. He grinned, malevolently, with forced lightness.

  “Hell,” he said; “you’re damned particular! I’m runnin’ things here, but I ain’t Bransford!”

  “I was reckonin’ you wasn’t,” said Sanderson, mockingly. He now ignored the big man, and fixed his gaze on one of the women—the one he felt must be Mary Bransford.

  He had found time, while talking with the big man, to look twice at the two women—and he had discovered they were not women at all, but girls. More, he had discovered that one of them looked as he had pictured her many times during the days since he had heard of her from the Drifter.

  She was standing slightly aside from the men—and from the other girl. She was pale, her eyes were big and fright-laden, and since Sanderson’s comings she had been looking at him with an intense, wondering and wistful gaze, her hands clasped over her breast, the fingers working stiffly.

  Sanderson colored as he looked at her; he was wondering what she would say to him if she knew that he had come to the Double A purposely to see her, and that seeing her he was afflicted with a dismayed embarrassment that threatened to render him speechless.

  For she more than fulfilled the promise of what he had expected of her. She was slightly above medium height, though not tall—a lissome, graceful girl with direct, frank eyes.

  That was all Sanderson noted. Her hair, he saw, of course—it was done up in bulging knots and folds—and was brown, and abundant, and it made him gulp in admiration of it; but he could not have told what her features were like—except that they were what he expected them to be.

  “I reckon you’re Mary Bransford, ma’am?” he said to her.

  The girl took a step toward him, unclasping her hands.

  “Yes,” she said rapidly, “It can’t be that you—that you—”

  The big man stepped between the girl and Sanderson, pushing the girl aside and standing before Sanderson. But he spoke to the girl.

  “Look here,” he said shortly; “I don’t know what you two are goin’ to palaver about, but whatever it is it’s goin’ to wait until what we set about to do is done.” He looked at Sanderson. “Stranger, we ain’t got no objections to you doin’ all the lookin’ you want to do. But keep your trap shut. Now, Miss Bransford,” he continued, turning to the girl, “we’ll get this trial over with. You say them steers which me an’ my boys brought over an’ put into your corral is Double A steers—that you’re sure the brand is yours—an’ the earmarks?”

  “Ye-es,” returned the girl slowly and hesitatingly.

  While talking with Sanderson she had unclasped her hands, and now she clasped them again, twining the fingers with a quick, nervous motion. Again her eyes grew wide with fright, and Sanderson
saw her looking at the other girl—he saw the other girl stiffen and stand straight, her lips curving scornfully as she returned Miss Bransford’s gaze.

  Sanderson’s lips straightened. And now for the first time he gravely inspected the faces in the group near him.

  Two men—cowboys—who stood near the big man, were evidently the “boys” referred to by the latter. Their faces were set and expressionless. Between them stood a rugged, well-built man of about twenty-two or three. His hands were tied behind him, a rope was around his neck, the free end coiled in the hands of one of the two men.

  The young man’s face was sullen, but his head was held very erect, and his eyes were steady and unwavering as he watched the big man.

  The girl at whom Miss Bransford was looking stood near the young man. Sanderson saw her turn from Miss Bransford and look at the young man piteously, her lips quivering suspiciously.

  There was another man in the group—an under-sized fellow, pale, emaciated, with big, troubled, and perplexed eyes. Sanderson saw that his hands were clenched, and that his thin lips were pressed so tightly together that they were blue and bloodless.

  This man stood slightly apart from the others, as though he had no part in what was going on; though Sanderson could tell from his manner that he was laboring under an intense strain.

  Miss Bransford and the big man were the opposing forces in what was transpiring—Sanderson knew that from Miss Bransford’s manner of answering the big man’s question. Her “yes” had been uttered reluctantly. Her testimony was damaging—she knew it, and her sympathies were with the young man with the rope around his neck.

  Sanderson knew nothing of the motives that were actuating the people of this little drama, but he was entirely conscious of the visible forces that were at work.

  Plainly, the big man had accused the captive of stealing cattle; he had brought the supposed culprit to face the owner of the stolen stock; he had constituted himself judge and jury, and was determined to hang the young man.