His hints to Bayne had apparently sown the seeds of action, for he saw the young rancher stride purposefully down the street to join in a long conversation with John Pole, Nelson, and Fowler. Pole, a lean, saturnine man, seemed pleased. Noll spat and chuckled to himself.
Sartain walked up the street, his boot heels sounding loud upon the boardwalk, and Carol Quarterman, watching him draw near, felt a curious little throb of excitement.
How tall he was! And the way he walked, it was more the quick, lithe step of a woodsman—speaking of strong, well-trained muscles—than the walk of any rider. Yet she sensed worry in him now. “What’s the matter, Ranger?” she asked, smiling. “Troubles? I thought we settled things.”
“We’ve settled nothing.” His voice was worried. “You know that. There is a bit of kindly feeling now, but how long will it last? The basic trouble is still there, and what is it? Where is it? Who can gain by trouble?”
She caught something of his mood. “I see what you mean. It is strange how such things start. Father and Holy griped a little when they moved in, but only Steve seemed much impressed by it, and he is always being impressed by something. Then cattle were missed and we warned them off. They wouldn’t go.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen these things start before, but always with much more reason. It’s almost as if somebody wanted trouble. I’ve seen that, too, but who could profit from it here?”
“Nobody ever seems to win in a fight,” Carol agreed. “Everyone gets hurt. The only way anyone could hope to win would be to stay out of it and pick up the pieces.”
Sartain nodded, musing. “There are other motives. Men have been known to do ugly things without any hope of gain, over a woman, or out of envy or jealousy. There seems no way to realize any gain, but unless there is somebody around who hates either the ranchers or the nesters, I can’t figure it.”
“There’s nobody I know of,” she said doubtfully. It was odd that right then she remembered George Noll, but it was absurd to think all this could stem from so small a thing.
“Steve is angry enough to kill you,” Carol said suddenly. “He’ll get over it, but the fact that you knocked him down hurt worse than the blows.”
She was realizing then that her feelings toward Steve had undergone a change. For months she had been resigned to the idea of marriage to him. He was handsome, and could be very charming, yet she had never been in love with him, and now in comparison with Sartain he seemed suddenly very juvenile, with his easy angers, his vanity and petulance. “Be careful,” she warned Sartain. “Steve might go further than we believe. He’s very sure of his rightness.”
“In a way,” he replied, “I can understand his not liking me. He’s in love with you and he can see very well that I like you!”
The suddenness of it took her breath, but before she could make any reply, he stepped from the walk and strode quickly away. Yet as he was walking off, incongruously, a remark of Carol’s recurred to him. The only way to win, she had said, would be to stay out of it and pick up the pieces.
Yet if the cattlemen and nesters fought, who would be left to pick up any pieces? He spent a busy afternoon and evening, visiting the town’s banker, the doctor, both of the lawyers, and two keepers of stores. When he left the last one he was very thoughtful. He had learned a little, but it was all very flimsy, too flimsy.
Very
Surprisingly, the night passed quietly. When it was well past midnight Sartain returned to the hotel and to bed. He awakened with the sun streaming through his window and the street full of excited shouts. Hurriedly scrambling into his clothes, he rushed for the street.
Men were crowding the street, most of them riders from the ranches, and Steve Bayne was up on the steps of the harness shop shouting at them, his face red and angry. Sartain broke through the crowd and confronted him. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Bayne wheeled on him, his eyes ugly.
“You!” He sneered. “You and your peacemaking! The
damn nester killed Parrishffwas
“What nester?” he asked patiently.
“Who’s Parrish?”
“Parrish”—Bayne’s face was flushed with temper–?was Holy Walker’s cowhand who went after those cattle with Earl Mason. Mason killed him!”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sartain replied calmly. “You are telling us Mason killed a man who was getting beef for him?” He spoke loudly so the assembled crowd could hear.
“What you think doesn’t matter!” Bayne bellowed. “Parrish was found dead along the trail, an’ we’re hangin’ Mason right now!”
A half-dozen rough-handed men were shoving Mason forward, their faces dark with passion. Another man had a rope.
Suddenly someone shouted, “Look out! Here come the nesters!”
They were coming, all right, a tight little band of hardheaded, frightened men. Frightened, but ready to fight for what they believed.
Sartain wheeled. “Quarterman! Walker! Call off your men! Send them back to the ranches and tell them to stay there! If one shot is fired in this street by those men, I’ll hold you accountable!”
“It’s too far gone to stop now,” Quarterman said. “Mason killed Parrish, all right.”
“Call them off!” Sartain warned. “Get them off this street at once or you’ll be held accountable! There’s going to be blazing hell if you don’t!”
Bayne laughed. “Why, you meddling fool! You can’t stop this now! Nothing can stop it! Pole, the second those nesters pass that water trough, cut them down!”
Time for talking was past, and Sartain struck swiftly. Steve Bayne never even got his hands up. Sartain struck left and right so fast the rancher had no chance even to partially block the punches. Both caught him in the wind, yet even as he gasped for breath Jim Sartain grabbed him around the waist, spun him around, and jammed a sixgun into his spine. “Pole!” he yelled. “One shot and I’ll kill Bayne! I’ll shoot him right here, and you’ll be next!
Get off the street!”
He shoved Bayne forward. “Tell them!” he snapped. “Order them off the street or I’ll blow you apart!”
Bayne gasped the ^ws: “I will not!”
Sartain groaned inwardly. The nesters were almost
to the trough, and although outnumbered at least five to one, they kept coming. His pistol barrel came up and he slapped Bayne across the skull with it, one sweeping blow that dropped him to the dust.
Springing over him, his face dark with bitter fury, he faced the mob, both guns drawn now. “All right!” His voice roared in the suddenly silent street. “You wanted a fight! By the Lord Harry, you can have it and now! With me!
“Back up! Get off the street or start shootin’ an’ I’ll kill the first man who lifts a gun! I’ve got twelve shots here and I never miss! Who wants to die?”
His eyes blazing, trembling with fury, he started for the mob. It was a colossal bluff, and one from which he could not turn back, yet stop that slaughter he would, if he must die to do it.
“Back up!” His fury was mounting now and the mob seemed half-hypnotized by it. Not a man in that crowd but knew the reputation of Jim Sartain and the unerring marksmanship of which those guns were capable. They recalled that he had at one time shot it out with five men and come out unscathed. To each the black muzzles of the guns seemed pointed directly at himself, and not a man of them but suddenly believed that he had but to lift a hand to die.
Behind him the nesters were equally appalled. A lone man had sprung between them and almost certain death, and that man was slowly but surely backing the crowd up the street.
Carol Quarterman, her heart pounding, watched from the door of the hotel. At first, one man shifted his feet, but the feeling of movement caught the mob and those in front, eager to be out of reach of those guns, felt their backing easing away from them, and they, too, backed away, almost without conscious thought.
Then Sartain called out. “Quarterman! Walker! You get a last chance! Order these men back to their ranches or I’ll see you both jailed for inciting to riot! If a man dies here today I’ll see you both hang for murder!”
VI
Quarterman stiffened. “You needn’t warn me, Sartain. I know my duty.” He lifted his voice. “Mount up, men, and go home. We’ll let the law handle this.”
Walker added his voice, and the cowhands, aware of a cool breath of relief, were suddenly finding the street too narrow for comfort.
Sartain turned to see the rope on Mason’s neck, and John Pole standing beside him, and only a few feet away, Newton and Fowler.