Station there was an air of expectancy, and Bill spent all of Saturday
morning from daylight until time to start in cleaning his stage and
grooming the horses, whose astonishment quickly passed into prohibitive
indignation. After narrowly escaping broken bones and chewed arms Bill
decided that the sextet could go as it was.

"Serves 'em right!" he yelled to his friendly enemy, the clerk, after he
had barely dodged a vicious kick, wildly waving a curry comb. "Let the
ignoramuses go like they are! Let 'em show how cheap and common they are!
They never was any good for anything, anyhow, eating their heads off and
kicking their best friend!"

"How about the time they beat out them Apaches?" asked the clerk, settling
back comfortably against the coach.

"You get out!" yelled Bill pugnaciously. "Who asked you for talk, hey? And
get away from that coach, you idiot, you'll dirty it all up!"

"Sic 'em, Tige!" jeered the clerk pleasantly. "Chew 'em up!"

"What!" yelled Bill, swiftly grabbing up the pail of water which stood
near him. "Sic 'em, is it!" he cried, running forward. "Chew 'em up,
hey!" he continued, heaving the contents of the pail at the clerk, who
nimbly sprang inside the vehicle and slammed the door shut behind him as
the water struck it. He leaped out of the other door and was safely away
before Bill realized what had happened. Then the driver said things when
he saw the mess he had made of the coach, upon which he had spent two
hard hours in polishing.

"Suffering dogs!" he shouted, dancing first on one foot and then on the
other. "Now look what you've done! You're a h--l of a feller, you are!
After me rubbing the skin off'n my hands and breaking my arms a-polishing
it up! You good for nothing, mangy half-breed! Wait till I get a hold of
you, you long pair of legs, you! Just wait! I'll show you, all right!"

The clerk twiddled his fingers from afar and jeered in his laughter:
"Serves you right! Sic 'em, Towser! Eat 'em up, Fido! Sic 'em, sic 'em!"
he shouted joyously, and forthwith ran for his life.

Bill returned to the coach and worked like mad to undo the evil effects
he had wrought and finally succeeded in bringing a phantom glow to the
time-battered wood. Then he hitched up and drove to the sheriff's house,
where he saw huge baskets on the porch.

"Good morning, Mrs. Shields," he said as he stamped to the door. "Good
morning, ladies."

"Good morning William," replied the sheriff's wife as she hurried to
collect shawls and blankets. "Will you mind putting those baskets on
the coach, William? We will soon be ready."

"Why, certainly not, ma'am," he answered, recklessly grabbing up the two
largest. "Jimminee!" he exulted. "These are shore heavy, all right, all
right! Must be plumb full of good things! To-day is where your Uncle
Bill Halloway gets square for the dinner the company froze him out of.
Wonder if there's apricot pie in this one?" he mused curiously. He
gingerly raised the cover and a grin distorted his face. "Must be six,
yes, eight--mebby ten!" he soliloquized as he placed it on the stage.
"Hullo, bottles of some kind," he whispered as he picked up another
basket. "Hear the little devils clink, eh? Must be coffee and tea, hey?
Yes, shore enough it is. Good Lord, how hungry I am--wish I had eaten that
breakfast this morning--how in thunder did I know we was going to be so
late? I'll be the strong man at this picnic, all right!"

"Here are some blankets, William," called Mrs. Shields. "Helen, would you
mind showing him how to carry that box?--he's sure to turn it upside down
if you don't."

"Next!" he cried, returning from the trip with the blankets. "I put them
blankets up on top, Mrs. Shields, is it all right? How do you do, Miss
Helen, any more freight?"

"How do you do," she replied. "This box is to go, please. Now, do be very
careful not to turn it up, or jar it!" she warned. "And put it on the seat
inside the coach where we can steady it."

"Gee, what's in it?" asked Bill, nearly dying from his curiosity. "Must
be the joker of the feast, eh?"

"Three layer cakes," she laughingly replied. "Chocolate, cocoanut and
lemon."

"Um!" he said. "I'll carry this one high up, it deserves it."

"Oh, do be careful!" she cried as he swooped it up to his shoulder. "Oh!"
she screamed as it thumped against the top of the door frame.

"Whoa! Back up!" cried Bill, executing the order. "Easy, boy--all right,
off we go!"

"Grace, Mary," cried Helen, "we are all ready to go!"

"Ain't there any more boxes?" asked Bill from the coach.

"Come, girls," cried Mrs. Shields as she stepped into the coach. "Close
the door after you, and lock it, dear."

Bill gallantly helped the ladies into the coach, grinned at the cake box
and started toward the front wheel when he was called back.

"Now, William," cautioned Mrs. Shields, laughing. "We will not be pursued
by Apaches to-day, and this cake must not be shaken!"

"You won't know you're riding, ma'am, you shore won't," he assured her as
he danced toward the front wheel again.

"Wake up there, you!" he yelled from the box. "Come on, Jerry, think
you're glued to the earth? Come on, Tom! Easy there, you fool jackrabbit!
--haven't you learned that you can't reach this high!"

When they had arrived at the A-Y the baskets were carried into the
ranch-house and the women became very busy getting things ready for the
feast. Bill took care of his team and then carried the blankets to the
grove.

While the picnic was being prepared there arose a series of blood-curdling
whoops off to the south where the outfit of the Star C made the air
blue with powder smoke. As they came nearer something peculiar was
noticed by Helen. It appeared to be a sort of drag drawn by a horse and
supported by two long, springy poles, one end of which rested on the
ground, and the other fastened to the saddle. While she wondered Bill
came up and she turned to him for light.

"What have they got fastened to that horse?" she asked him.

He looked and then smiled: "Why, it is a travois," he said. "But what
under the sun have they got on it? They must be bringing their own grub!"

The travois dragged and bumped over the uneven plain and soon came near
enough for its burden to be made out. A man and a dog were strapped to it.

At this point Blake joined Helen and Bill, and as he did so he espied the
travois.

"Thunder!" he cried, running forward. "Somebody is hurt! What's the
matter, Silent?" he shouted.

"Matter?" asked Silent, in surprise as the outfit drew near. "There ain't
nothing the matter. Why?"

"What's that travois doing with you, then?" Blake demanded.

Silent's face was as grave as that of an owl. "Travois?" he asked.
Then his face cleared: "Oh, yes--I near forgot about it," he added,
apologetically. "You see, Humble he shore wanted his dog to come to the
picnic, so we reckoned we'd let it come along. Bud and Jim was for
slinging it at the end of a rope and dragging it over, but I said no.
We ain't got any ropes to have all frayed out and cut a-dragging dogs
to picnics, and I said so, too. So we built the travois and strapped
Lightning to it. When Humble saw what we had done he acted real unpolite.
He said as how he wasn't going to have no dog of his'n toted twenty
miles in a fool travois. Said that he'd make it stay home first, which
was some mean after inviting the dog to come along. He said that he'd
go in a travois himself first before he'd let the setter be made a fool
of. Well, we simply had to subdue him, and he got so unreasonable that we
just had to tie him with his dog. He shore does get awful pig-headed at
times."

"Take off the gag, Jim," requested Silent, turning to the grinning
cow-puncher. "Let him loose now, we've arrived."

Jim leaned over and whispered in Humble's ear, the information being that
there were ladies about, and that all swearing must be thought and not
yelled. Then he slipped the gag, and untied the ropes. Gales of laughter
met the angry and indignant puncher when he had leaped to his feet, and
he flashed one quick glance at the women and then, boiling with wrath
and suppressed profanity, fled toward the corrals as swiftly as cramped
muscles would allow. The dog snarled at its tormentors and then set
off in hot pursuit of its discomfited master, whose waving arms kept
time with his speeding legs.

"That's all the thanks we get," grumbled Bud, "but then, he don't know
any better anyhow."

Blake laughed and regarded his grinning and expectant outfit, and the
longer he looked at them the more he laughed. They had paid their respects
to the women while Silent explained about the travois and now they cast
many longing glances at the blankets and cloths spread out on the grass
and at the baskets which Bill was busy over. They had tried to coax the
driver to them to give information as to what they might expect in the
way of edibles, but he had haughtily and disdainfully refused to enlighten
them, taking care, however, to arouse their curiosity by looking fondly
at the box and the baskets and even showed his elation by taking several
fancy steps for their benefit.

"Well, get rid of the cayuses," said Blake, "and square things with
Humble. Bring him back with you or you don't get any pie. You're such a
darn fool crowd that I can't get mad this time, but don't ever drag a
man in a travois again."

"Did he come, or was he kidnapped?" murmured Bud. "What we did once we can
do again, and Humble will be on hand when the feast begins."

Jim had been scowling at Bill, whose manners were most aggravating. "You
just wait, you heathen," threatened Jim. "You're ace high with the grub,
all right, but just you wait 'til we get you alone!"

"Yah!" laughed the driver. "I shore can handle the best cow-wrastler that
ever lived."

"Bill seems to be running this here festival," Bud complained to Helen.

"Oh, he is our right-hand man," she replied with enthusiasm. "We couldn't
possibly get along without him, now. He has charge of the pie and cake."

Bill's chest expanded: "I'm foreman of the pie and cake herd," he
exclaimed proudly. "You can't get ahead of me."

Bud looked at the driver and then significantly waved his hand at the
travois: "And you'll shore travel in style, just like a real pie foreman,
too, when we gets a chance to honor you like we wants to."

"You'll get no pie if you acts smart, little boy," retorted the driver.
"Run along and play till lunch is ready, and don't dirty your hands and
face."

"Well, we've got fine memories," Bud suggested as he led the way to the
corrals, where he found The Orphan.

"Hullo, Orphan!" he cried enthusiastically as he gripped the outstretched
hand. "Plumb glad to see you. How's things?"

"Glad to see you, boys," cried the temporary foreman, who was all smiles.
"One at a time!" he laughed as they crowded about him. "Make yourselves
right at home--that smallest corral is for your cayuses. And you'll find
plenty of soap and water and towels by the bunk-house, and there's a box
of good cigars, a tin of tobacco, and a jug on the table inside. Help
yourself to anything you want, the place is all yours."

"Gee, this is a good game, all right," Bud laughed as he turned to put
his horse in the corral. "The sheriff shore knows how to deal."

"Leave a cigar for me, Silent," jokingly warned Jim as his friend turned
toward the bunk-house. "Too many smokes will make you sick."

"Well, you've got a gall, all right!" retorted Silent. "You better let me
bring yours out to you and keep away from the box, for I'm always plumb
suspicious of these goody-goody, it's-for-your-own-good people."

A crafty look came to Jack Lawson's face and he turned to The Orphan: "Has
Bill Howland got his cigars yet?" he asked, winking at his friends.

"Why, I don't know whether he has or not," replied The Orphan. "But I
don't believe that he has been out of sight of the pies since he came.
They've got him in a trance."

"Guess I'll take him one," continued Jack, grinning broadly. "He likes to
smoke."

"Shore enough, go ahead," endorsed the foreman of the A-Y as he turned
toward the grove. Then he stopped, and with a knowing look added: "If you
want to see Humble, he just went in the bunk-house."

A yell of dismay arose as the outfit started pell-mell for the house.
Silent entered it first and his profanity informed his companions that
their fears were well grounded. Neither Humble, cigars, tobacco nor jug
were to be seen, and a search was forthwith instituted. Jack looked at
a distant corral and saw Lightning as the dog disappeared from sight into
it.

"Hey!" he cried. "He's in the big corral--I just saw his dog go in, and
it was wagging its tail a whole lot. Come on, we'll surround it and show
that frisky gent a thing or two!"

No more words were wasted, and in a very short time figures were creeping
around the corral. Then there was a scramble as most of the searchers
scaled the wall at different points while two of them ran in through
the gate. The first thing they saw was the dog, and his tail was still
wagging as he curiously followed, nose to the ground, a huge horned toad.
He looked up at the sudden disturbance and backed off suspiciously,
looking for a way to escape.

"---- ----!" chorused the fooled punchers, who discovered that deductions
don't always deduct, and then they returned to the bunk-house to "slick
up." When finally satisfied about their appearance they made their way
to the grove and the sight which greeted their eyes as they entered it
almost made them drop in their tracks.

Humble and Bill sat cross-legged on a blanket, which was surrounded with
guns. The jug, tobacco and cigars were flanked by pies and a cake, while
each of the conspirators held a lighted cigar in one hand while they took
turns at the jug. A huge piece of pie rested in a plate at Humble's side,
while Bill's knee held a piece of cake.

"Hands up!" shouted Humble, grabbing a gun. "Don't you dare to raid the
gallery! You stay right where you are!"

Bill's blacksnake whip leaped from point to point experimentally, picking
up twigs and leaves with disturbing accuracy.

The invaders halted just beyond the range of the whip and consulted
uneasily, not noticing that the driver had shortened his weapon by twice
the length of its handle. Finally Jim and Docile ran back toward the
corral while their friends waited impatiently for their return, grinning
at the enemy with an I-told-you-so air.

Bill suddenly leaned forward, the whip slid down into his hand to the end
of the handle and cracked viciously. Joe Haines, who had grown a little
careless, leaped into the air and yelled, grabbing at his leg.

"Keep your distance, you!" warned the driver, trying to look ferocious.
"Twenty feet is the dead-line, children."

Jim and Docile returned apace and brought with them half a dozen lariats,
which ranged in length from thirty to forty feet.

"Hey, you!" cried Humble in alarm. "That ain't fair!"

Grim silence was the only reply as the invaders each took his rope and
surrounded the two. Then, suddenly, the air was full of darting ropes
and in less time than it takes to tell of it the pair were hopelessly
and helplessly trussed. Silent ran in and hurled the whip away and then
squatted before the prisoners, throwing their cigars after the whip as
he took up the pie and cake, which he tantalizingly munched before their
eyes.

"I like a hog, all right, but you suit me too blamed well!" asserted Bud,
grabbing at Silent's pie.

"Gimme some of that," demanded Jim, trying for the cake. And when the
disturbance had ceased there were no signs of either pie or cake.

"It's the travois for you, Humble dear!" softly hummed Charley Bailey.
"And to the ranch, by the way of town!"

"And Bill will be pleased to explore the Limping Water on the bottom,"
amended Jim. "One of us can drive the women home!"

CHAPTER XXI

THE ANNOUNCEMENT

About thirty people sat in a circle on the grass in the grove on the A-Y,
engaged in taking viands from the well-filled plates which made the
rounds. Keen humor from all sides kept them in roars of laughter, Humble
and Bill provoking the greater part of it. Humble sat next to Miss
Ritchie, while The Orphan and Bill flanked Helen, the sheriff next to his
new foreman. Humble's face had a look of benign condescension when he
allowed himself to bestow perfunctory attentions on the members of
his outfit, whom he graciously called "purty fair punchers in a way."

Crawford, the former owner of the A-Y, sat next to Shields, and when the
lunch had reached the cigar stage he arose and cleared his throat.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Bill and Humble," he began amid laughter. "I
have been regarded as the host of this picnic, and the false position
embarrasses me. But any such momentary feeling is compensated by the
importance of what I have to tell you.

"When I took up the A-Y it was with a determination to keep it and to
spend the rest of my days on it in peace. This I have found to be
impossible, and in consequence I have turned it over to a better man. The
energy which I have seen applied in the right way for the last few weeks
has assured me that the A-Y will soon be second in importance and
wealth to no ranch in this country. I have seen order, system, emerge
from chaos; I have seen five thousand cattle re-branded and taken care
of in such dispatch as to astonish me and be almost beyond my belief.
The sheriff has been as economical in the use of his energy as he can
be in the use of his words. By that I don't mean in the way that is
causing you to smile, but simply that he knows how to accomplish the
most work with the least possible expenditure of effort and time, as
witnessed by the condition of this ranch to-day. But while he has been
the guiding spirit in the work of putting the ranch on its proper
footing, he has had as good assistants as it is possible to find.

"I don't wish to tire you with any long speech, for brevity is the soul
of more than wit, so I will close by telling you that the A-Y is in new
and better hands--our sheriff is now its owner, and I extend to him my
heartiest wishes for his success in his new venture. I must thank him and
all of you for a very pleasant day and a memory to take East with me."

For an instant there was intense silence, and then a small battle seemed
to be taking place. The noise of the shooting and cheering was deafening
and smoke rolled down like a heavy fog. The sheriff met the rush toward
him and put in a very busy few minutes in shaking hands and replying
to the hearty congratulations which poured in upon him from all sides.
Everybody was happy and all were talking at once, and Bill could be heard
reeling off an unbroken string of words at high speed.

The Orphan fought his way to his best friend and gripped both hands in his
own.

"By God, Sheriff!" he cried. "This is great news, and I'm plumb glad to
hear it! I hope you have the very best of luck and that your returns, both
in pleasure and money, far exceed your fondest expectations. Anything I
can do is yours for the asking."

"Thank you, son," replied the sheriff, looking fondly into his friend's
eyes. "I'm going to call on you just as soon as I can make myself heard
in all this hellabaloo. Just listen to that!" he exclaimed as Silent let
loose again.

"Glory be!" yelled he of the misleading name, slapping Humble across the
back. "For this you ride home like a white man, Humble--all your sins are
forgiven! Hurrah for the sheriff, his family and the A-Y!" he shouted at
the top of his lungs, and his cheer was supported unanimously with true
cowboy enthusiasm and vim.

"Hurray for me, too!" shouted Bill in laughter. Then he fled, with Silent
in hot pursuit.

The sheriff tried to speak, and after several attempts was finally given
silence.

"Thank you, everybody!" he cried, his face beaming. "I am happy for many
reasons to-day, but foremost among them is the fact that I have so many
warm and loyal friends. The A-Y is always open to all of you, and I'll be
some disappointed if you don't put in a lot of your spare time over here."

He paused for a few seconds and then looked at The Orphan, who stood at
Helen's side.

"Mr. Crawford did his part a whole lot better than I can do mine, I'm
afraid, but I'm going to do my best, anyhow. The news has only been half
told--the name of the new foreman of the A-Y henceforth will be The
Orphan! Whoop her up, boys!" he shouted, leading a cheer which was not
one whit less a cheer than those which had gone before.

The Orphan stared in astonishment, for once in his life he had been
surprised. The sheriff at last had the drop on him. He looked from one to
another, started to step forward and then changed his mind and looked
appealingly at Helen, who smiled in a way to double the speed of his
heart-beats.

Her eyes were moist, and the sudden consciousness that she formed half
of the objective of all eyes caused her cheeks to go crimson. Her hand
impulsively went to his shoulder and without thought on her part, and his
incredulous questioning was answered by her.

"It's all true," she said earnestly. "I've known of it for a whole week
now. You are the real foreman of the A-Y, and I most earnestly hope for
your success."

He suddenly seemed to be above the earth and his voice broke in his
stammered reply. For a fraction of a second her eyes had told him what
he had dreamed of, what he had hoped for above all things, and he grasped
her hand for a second as he stepped forward toward his new employer,
whose hand met his with a man's grasp.

"Thank you, Sheriff," he said, his head whirling from the surprises of a
minute. "You've been squarer and fairer with me than any man I've ever
known, and hell will look nice to me if I don't make good with you.

"Thank you, boys; thank you, Bill: you're all right, every one of you!"
he cried as his friends crowded about him. "What the sheriff said
about warm friends was the truth--thank you, Bud and Jim! Thank you,
Blake--you're another brick! Good God, what I have gained in two months!
I can scarcely believe it, it seems so like a dream. That's a real
warm grip, all right, though," he exclaimed as he shook hands with Humble,
"so I reckon it's all true. Two months!" he marveled. "Two glorious,
glorious months! A new start in life, a loyal crowd of friends, a--and
all in two months! And there is the man I owe it all to," he suddenly
cried, pointing to the sheriff. "There's the whitest man God ever made,
and I'll kill the man who says I lie!"

"Good boy!" shouted Bill in enthusiastic endorsement. "You two make a pair
of aces what can beat any full-house ever got together, and _I_'ll lick
the man who says _I_ lie!" he yelled pugnaciously. "The Orphant may be
an orphant, all right, but he's got a whole lot of brothers."

Mrs. Shields walked over to The Orphan and placed a motherly hand on his
shoulder as he recovered.

"You won't be an orphan any longer, my boy," she said, smiling up at him.
"You're one of us now--I always wanted a son, and God has given me one
in you."

CHAPTER XXII

TEX WILLIARD'S MISTAKE

During the month which followed the picnic things ran smoothly on the
A-Y, and the rejuvenated ranch was the pride of the whole contingent,
from the sheriff down to the cook. The Orphan had taken charge with a
determination which grew firmer with each passing day and the new
owner was delighted at the outcome of his plans. The foreman, elated
and happy at his sudden shift in fortune, radiated cheerfulness and
consideration. His men knew that he would not ask them to do anything
which he himself feared to do, which would not have been much consolation
to a timid man, since he feared nothing; but to them it meant that
they had a foreman who would stick by them through fire and water,
and a foreman who commands respect from his outfit is a man whose life
is made easy for him. He had known too much of unkindness, harshness,
to become angry at mistakes; instead, he set diligently at work to undo
them, and mistakes were rare. The very men who had once wished for his
life would now fight instantly to save it. They were proud of him, of
the owner, the ranch and themeselves; and proudest of all was Bill, once
driver of the stage, but now a cowboy working hard and loyally under the
man who had once held him up for a smoke.

Visitors were numerous, and every man who called became enthusiastic
about the ranch, and after he had departed marveled at the complete
change in the man who was its foreman, and felt confidence in the good
judgment of the sheriff. Ford's Station was openly jubilant, for the town
exulted in the discomfiture of the Cross Bar-8 and in the proof that
their sheriff was right. And Ford's Station chuckled at the news it
heard, for the foreman of the Cross Bar-8 had called twice at the A-Y and
was fast losing his prejudice against The Orphan. Sneed had found a
quiet, optimistic foreman in the place of his former enemy, and the
laughter which lurked in The Orphan's eyes closed the breach. He had
seen the man in a new light, and when he had said his farewell at the
close of his second visit the grip of his hand was strong. As for the
Star C, a trail had been worn between the two ranches and hardly a day
passed but one or more of its punchers dropped in to say a few words to
their former bunkmate, and to stir up Bill. The Star C, no less than his
own men, swore by The Orphan.

One bright morning the sheriff left for a trip to Chicago and other
packing cities to arrange for future cattle shipments, and announced
that he would be away for a week or two. On the night following his
departure trouble began. The ranch and bunk houses of the Cross Bar-8
were fired into, and when Sneed and his men had returned after a fruitless
search in the dark the foreman stared at the wall and swore. Was it The
Orphan again? In the absence of the sheriff had he renewed the war?
First thought cried that he had, but gradually the idea became untenable.
Why should The Orphan risk his splendid berth on the A-Y, his prospects
now rich in promise, to work off any lingering hatred? When Sneed had
shaken hands with him he found apparent sincerity in the warm clasp. He
would ride over at daylight and have the matter settled once and for
all. And if satisfied that The Orphan was guiltless of the outrage he
would turn his whole attention to the imitator of the former outlaw.

The Orphan was mending his saddle girth when he saw Sneed cantering past
the farthest corral. The latter's horse bore all the signs of hard riding
and he looked up inquiringly at the visitor.

"Good morning, Sneed," he said pleasantly, arising and laying aside the
saddle. "What's up, anything?"

"Yes, and I came over to find out about it," Sneed answered. "I hardly
know how to begin--but here, I'll tell it from the beginning," and he
related what had occurred, much to the wonder of The Orphan.

"Now," finished the visitor, "I want to ask you a question, although I
may be a d----n fool for doing it. But I want to get this thing thrashed
out. Do you know who did it?"

The foreman of the A-Y straightened up, his eyes flashing, and then he
realized that Sneed had some right to question him after what had occurred
in the past.

"No, Sneed, I do not," he answered, "but in two guesses I can name the
man!"

"Good!" cried Sneed. "Go ahead!"

"Bucknell?"

"No, he was with me in the bunk-house," replied the foreman of the Cross
Bar-8. "It wasn't him--go on."

"Tex Williard," said The Orphan with decision.

"Tex?" cried Sneed. "Why?"

"It's plain as day, Sneed," The Orphan answered. "He's sore at me, but
lacks nerve."

"But, thunderation, how would he hurt you by shooting at us?" Sneed
demanded, impatiently.

"Oh, he would scare up a war during the sheriff's absence by throwing your
suspicions on me. He reckoned you would think that I did it, get good
and mad, fly off the handle and raise h--l generally. He figured that
I, according to the past, would meet you half way and that you or some
of your men might kill me. If you didn't, he reckoned that the sheriff
would kick me out of this berth, and that one or both of us might get
killed in the argument. He could sit back and laugh to himself at how easy
it was to square up old scores from a distance. It's Tex as sure as I am
here, and unless Tex changes his plans and gets out of this country d----n
soon he won't be long in getting what he seems to ache for."

Sneed pushed back his sombrero and smiled grimly: "I reckon that you're
right," he replied. "But you ain't sore at the way I asked, are you? I
had to begin somewhere, you know."

"Sore?" rejoined his companion, angrily. "Sore? I'm so sore that I'm going
out after Tex right now. And I'll get him or know the reason why, too.
You go back and post your men about this--and tell them on no account
to ride over my range for a few days, for they might get hurt before they
are known. Put a couple of them to bed as soon as you get back--you need
them to keep watch nights."

He turned toward the corral and called to a man who was busy near it:
"Charley, you take anybody that you want and get in a good sleep before
nightfall. I will want both of you to work to-night."

"All right, after dinner will be time enough," Charley replied. "I'll take
Lefty Lukins."

The Orphan went into the ranch house and returned at once with his rifle,
a canteen of water and a package of food. As he threw a saddle on his
horse Bill galloped up, waving his arms and very much excited.

"Hey, Orphant!" he shouted. "Somebody's shore enough plugged some of our
cows near the creek! I lost his trail at the Cottonwoods!"

"All right, Bill," replied the foreman, "I'll go out and look them over.
You take another horse and ride to the Star C. Tell Blake to keep watch
for Tex Williard, and tell him to hold Tex for me if he sees him. Lively,
Bill!"

Bill stared, leaped from his horse, took the saddle from its back and was
soon lost to sight in the corral. In a few minutes he galloped past his
foreman and Sneed swearing heartily. His quirt arose and fell and soon
he was lost to sight over a rise near the ranch-house.

The foreman of the A-Y rode over to Charley: "Charley, in case I don't get
back to-night, you and Lefty keep guard somewhere out here, and shoot
any man who don't halt at your hail. If I return in the dark I'll whistle
Dixie as soon as I see the lights in the bunk house, and I'll keep it
up so you won't mistake me. So long."

Sneed and he cantered away together and soon they parted, the former to
ride toward his ranch, the latter toward the Cottonwoods near the Limping
Water and along the trail left by Bill.

When near the grove The Orphan saw five dead cows and he quickly
dismounted to examine them.

"Not dead for long," he muttered as he examined the blood on them. He
leaped into his saddle and galloped through the grove. "Now, by God,
somebody pays for them!" he muttered.

Here was a sudden change in things, positions had been reversed, and
now he could appreciate the feelings which he had, more than once, aroused
in the hearts of numerous foremen. He emerged from the grove and rode
rapidly along the trail left by the perpetrator, alert, grim and angry.
Soon the trail dipped beneath the waters of the creek and he stopped
and thought for a few seconds. If it was Tex, he would not have ridden
toward the Cross Bar-8 and the town, and neither would he have ridden
south toward the Star C, nor north in the direction of the A-Y. He would
seek cover for the day if he was still determined to carry on his game,
and would not emerge until night covered his movements. That left him
only the west along the creek, and more than that, the creek turned to the
south again about five miles farther on and flowed far too close to the
ranch-houses of the Star C for safety. He must have left the water at the
turn, and toward the turn rode The Orphan, watching intently for the trail
to emerge on either bank. His deductions were sound, for when he had
rounded the bend of the stream he picked up the trail where it left
the water and followed it westward.

The country around the bend was very wild and rough, for ravines between
the hills cut seams and gashes in the plain. The underbrush was shoulder
high, and he did not know how soon he might become a target. The trail
was very fresh in the soft loam of the ravines and the broken branches
and trampled leaves were still wet with sap. Soon he hobbled his horse
and proceeded on foot, but to one side of and parallel with the trail.
He had spent an hour in his advance and had begun to regret having left
his horse so early, when he heard the report of a gun near at hand and
a bullet hissed viciously over his head as he stooped to go under a low
branch.

He threw up his arms, the rifle falling from his hands, pitched forward
and rolled down the side of the hill and behind a fallen tree trunk
which lay against a thicket. As soon as he had gained this position he
glanced in the direction from whence the shot had come and, finding
himself screened from sight on that side, quickly jerked off his boots and
planted them among the bushes, where they looked as if he had crawled in
almost out of sight. That done, he crawled along the ground under the
protection of the tree trunk and then squirmed under it, when he pushed
himself, feet first, deep into a tangled thicket and waited, Colt in
hand, for a sign of his enemy's approach.

A quarter of an hour had passed in silence when a shot, followed by
another, sounded from the hillside. After the lapse of a like interval
another shot was fired, this time from the opposite direction. He saw a
twig fall by the boots and heard the spat! of the bullet as it hit a
stone. Two more shots sounded in rapid succession, and then another long
interval of silence. Half an hour passed, but he was not impatient. He
most firmly believed that his man would, sooner or later, come out to
examine the boots, and time was of no consequence: he wanted the man.

Whoever he was, he was certainly cautious, he did not believe in taking
any chances. It was almost certain that he would not leave until he had
been assured that he had accomplished his purpose, for it would be most
disconcerting at some future time to unexpectedly meet the man he thought
he had murdered. Another shot whizzed into the place where the body
should have been, according to the silent testimony of the boots. It
sounded much closer to the thicket, but in the same direction of the
last few shots. Then, after ten minutes of silence, a twig snapped,
and directly behind the thicket in which The Orphan was hidden! The
foreman's nerves were tense now, his every sense was alert, for his
was a most dangerous position. He quickly glanced over his shoulder into
the thicket and found that he could not penetrate the mass of leaves and
branches, which reassured him. He was very glad that he had forced himself
well into the cover, for soon the leaves rustled and a pebble rolled not
more than four feet off, and in front of him, slightly at his right.
More rustling and then a head and shoulder slowly pushed past him into
view. The man moved very slowly and cautiously and was crouched, his
head far in advance of his waist. The Orphan could see only one side
of the face, the angle of the man's jaw and an ear, but that was enough,
for he knew the owner. Slowly and without a sound the foreman's right
hand turned at the wrist until the Colt gleamed on a line with the
other's heart. The searcher leaned forward and to one side, that he
might better see the boots, when a sound met his ears.

"Don't move," whispered the foreman.

The prowler stiffened in his tracks, frozen to rigidity by the command.
Then he slowly turned his head and looked squarely into the gun of the
man he thought he had killed.

"Christ!" he cried hoarsely, starting back.

"I don't reckon you'll ever know Him," said The Orphan, his voice very
low and monotonous. "Stand just as you are--don't move--I want to talk
with you."

Tex simply stared at him in pitiful helplessness and could not speak,
beads of perspiration standing out on his face, testifying to the agony
of fear he was in.

"You're on the wrong side of the game again, Tex," The Orphan said slowly,
watching the puncher narrowly, his gun steady as a rock. "You still
want to kill me, it seems. I've given you your life twice, once to your
knowledge, and I told you with the sheriff that I would shoot you if you
ever returned; and still you have come back to have me do it. You were
not satisfied to let things rest as they were."

Tex did not reply, and The Orphan continued, a flicker of contempt about
his lips.

"You were never cast for an outlaw, Tex. If I do say it myself, it
takes a clever man to live at that game, and I know, for I've been all
through it. As you see, Sneed and I didn't shoot each other, for the
play was too plain, too transparent. You should have ambushed one of
his men, burned his corrals and slaughtered his cattle, for then he
might have shot and talked later. And he might have gotten me, too,
for I was unsuspecting. I don't say that I would kill an innocent man to
arouse his anger if I had been in your place, I'm only showing you
where you made the mistake, where you blundered. Had you killed one of
his men it is very probable that his rage would have known no bounds,
but as it was the provocation was not great enough."

Tex remained silent and unconsciously toyed at his ear. The Orphan looked
keenly at the movement and wondered where he had seen it before, for it
was familiar. His face darkened as memory urged something forward to
him out of the dark catacombs of the past, and he stilled his breathing
to catch a clue to it. He saw the little ranch his father had worked so
hard over to improve, and had fought hard to save, and then the picture of
his dying mother came vividly before him; but still something avoided
his searching thoughts, something barely eluded him, trembling on the
edge of the Then and Now. He saw his father's body slowly swinging and
turning in the light breeze of a perfect day, and he quivered at the
nearness of what he was seeking, its proximity was tantalizing. The
rope!--the rope about his father's neck had been of manila fiber; he
could never forget the soiled, bleached-yellow streak which had led
upward to Eternity. And manila ropes were, at that time, a rarity in
that part of the country, for rawhide and braided-hair lariats had been
the rule. And on the day when he had given Tex his life in the defile he
had noticed the faded yellow rope which had swung at the puncher's saddle
horn. As he strained with renewed hope to catch the elusive impression
another scene came before him. It was of three men bent over a cow,
engaged in blotting out his father's brand, and instantly the face of
one of them sprang into sharp definition on his mental canvas.

"D----n you!" he cried, his finger tightening on the trigger of the
Colt which for so many years had been his best friend. "I know you now,
changed as you are! Now I know why you have been so determined for my
death. On the day that I cut my father down I swore that I would kill
the man who had lynched him if kind fate let me find him, and I have
found him. You have just five minutes to live, so make the most of it, you
cowardly murderer!"

Tex's face went suddenly white again and his nerve deserted him. His Colt
was in his hand, but oh, so useless! Should he fight to the end? A shudder
ran through him at the thought, for life was so good, so precious; far
too precious to waste a minute of it by dying before his time was up.
Perhaps the foreman would relent, perhaps he would become so wrapped
up in the memories of the years gone by as to forget, just for half a
second, where he was. The watch in The Orphan's hand gave him hope,
for he would wait until the other glanced at it--that would be his only
hope of life.

The foreman's watch ticked loudly in the palm of his left hand and the
Colt in his right never quivered. The first minute passed in terrifying
silence, then the second, then the third, but all the time The Orphan's
eyes stared steadily at the man before him, gray, cruel, unblinking.

"They told me to do it! They told me to do it!" shrieked the pitiful,
unnerved wreck of a man as he convulsively opened and shut his hand.
"I didn't want to do it! I swear I didn't want to do it! As God is above,
I didn't want to! They made me, they made me!" he cried, his words swiftly
becoming an unintelligible jumble of meaningless sounds. He stared at the
black muzzle of the Colt, frozen by terror, fascinated by horror and
deadened by despair. The watch ticked on in maddening noise, for his every
sense was now most acute, beating in upon his brain like the strokes of a
hammer. Then the foreman glanced quickly at it. The gun in Tex's hand
leaped up, but not quickly enough, and a spurt of smoke enveloped his face
as he fell. The Orphan stepped back, dropping the Colt into its holster.

[Illustration: "The Orphan stepped back a pace and dropped the Colt into
its holster." (_See page_ 390.)]

"The courage of despair!" he whispered. "But I'm glad he died game," he
slowly added. Then he suddenly buried his face in his hands: "Helen!" he
cried. "Helen--forgive me!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GREAT HAPPINESS

The town was rapidly losing sharpness of detail, for the straggling
buildings were becoming more and more blurred and were growing into sharp
silhouettes in the increasing dusk, and the sickly yellow lights were
growing more numerous in the scattered windows.

Helen moved about the dining-room engaged in setting the table and
she had just placed fresh flowers in the vase, when she suddenly stopped
and listened. Faintly to her ears came the pounding hoofbeats of a
galloping horse on the well-packed street, growing rapidly nearer with
portentous speed. It could not be Miss Ritchie, for there was a vast
difference between the comparatively lazy gallop of her horse and the
pulse-stirring tattoo which she now heard. The hoofbeats passed the
corner without slackening pace, and whirled up the street, stopping in
front of the house with a suddenness which she had long since learned
to attribute to cowboys. She stood still, afraid to go to the door,
numbed with a nameless fear--something terrible must have happened,
perhaps to The Orphan. The rider ran up the path, his spurs jingling
sharply, leaped to the porch, and the door was dashed open to show him
standing before her, sombrero in hand, his quirt dangling from his left
wrist. He was dusty and tired, but the expression on his face terrified
her, held her speechless.

"Helen!" he cried hoarsely, driving her fear deeper into her heart by
his altered voice. "Helen!" She trembled, and he made a gesture of
hopelessness and involuntarily stepped toward her, letting the door swing
shut behind him. He stood just within the room, rigidly erect, his eyes
meeting hers in the silence of strong emotion. Breathlessly she retreated
as he advanced, as if instinct warned her of what he had to tell her,
until the table was between them; and a spasm of pain flickered across
his face as he noticed it, leaving him hard and stern again, but in
his eyes was a look of despair, a keen misery which softened her and
drew her toward him even while she feared him.

The silence became unbearable and at last she could endure it no longer.
"What is it?" she breathed, tensely. "What have you to tell me?"

His eyes never wavered from her face, fascinated in despair of what he
must read there, much as he dreaded it, and he answered her from between
set lips, much as a man would pronounce his own death sentence. "I have
broken my word," he said, harshly.

"Broken your word--to me?" she asked.

"Yes."

Her face brightened and was softened by a child-like wonder, for she felt
relieved in a degree, and unconsciously she moved nearer to him. "What is
it--what have you done?"

He regarded her without appraising the change in her expression and his
reply was as harsh and stern as his first statement, accompanied by no
excuses nor words of extenuation. "I have killed a man," he said.

A shiver passed over her and her eyes went closed for a moment. The
great choice was at hand now, and in her heart a fierce, short battle
raged; on one side was arrayed her early training, all her teachings, all
regard for the ideas of law and order which she had absorbed in the East,
where human life was safeguarded as the first necessity; and on the
other was the Unwritten Law of the range as exemplified by The Orphan.
Blood, and human blood, was precious, and her early environment fought
bitterly against this regime of direct justice, so startlingly driven
into her mind by his bold, cold admission. And then, he had sinned in
this way again after he had promised her not to do so. The last thought
dominated her and she opened her eyes and looked at him hopefully.

"Perhaps," she said, eagerly, "perhaps you could not avoid it--perhaps you
were forced to do it."

"No."

"Oh!" she cried. "You did not--you did not shoot him down without warning!
I _know_ you didn't!"

"No, not that," he said slowly. "And, besides, this was his third offense.
Twice I have given him his life, and I would have done so again but for
what I discovered after I faced him." He paused for a moment and then
continued, with more feeling in his voice, a ring of victory and an
irrepressible elation. "I found that he was the man for whom I have
been looking for fifteen years, and whom I had sworn to kill. He killed
my father, killed him like a dog and without a chance for life, hung
him to a tree on his own land. And when I learned that, when he had
confessed to me, I forgot the new game, I forgot everything but the
watch in my hand slowly ticking away his life, the time I had given him
to make his peace with God--and I hated the slow seconds, I begrudged
him every movement of the hands. Then I shot him, and I was glad, so
glad--but oh, dear! If you--if you----"

His voice wavered and broke and he dropped to his knees before her with
bowed head as she came slowly toward him and seized the hem of her gown
in both hands, kissing it passionately, burying his face in its folds like
a tired boy at his mother's knee.

Her eyes were filled with tears and they rimmed her lashes as she looked
down on the man at her feet. Bending, she touched him and then placed her
hands on his head, tenderly kissing the tangled hair in loving forgiveness.

"Dear, dear boy," she murmured softly. "Don't, dear heart. Don't, you
must not--oh, you must not! Please--come with me; get up, dear, and sit
with me over here in the corner; then you shall tell me all about it. I
am sure you have not done wrong--and if you have--don't you know I love
you, boy? Don't you know I love you?"

He stirred slightly, as if awakening from a troubled sleep, and slowly
raised his head and looked at her with doubt in his eyes, for it was so
much like a dream--perhaps it was one. But he saw a light on her face,
a light which a man sees only on the face of one woman and which blinds
him against all other lights forever. Then it was true, all true--he had
heard aright! "Helen!" he cried, "Helen!" and the ring in his voice
brought new tears to her eyes. He sprang to his feet, tense, eager, all
his nerves tingling, and his quirt hissed through the air and snapped a
defiance, a warning to the world as he clasped her to him. "I _knew_,
I _knew!_" he cried passionately. "In my heart I _knew_ you were a
thoroughbred!"

He tilted her head back, but she laughed low with delight and eluded him,
leading him to a chair, the chair he had occupied on the occasion of his
first visit, and then drew a low, rough footrest beside him and seated
herself at his feet, her elbows resting on his knees and her chin in her
hands. He looked down into the upturned face and then glanced swiftly
about the homelike room and back to her face again. She snuggled tightly
against his knees and waited patiently for his story.

He sighed contentedly and touched her cheek reverently and then told her
all of the story of Tex Williard, from the very beginning to the very end,
from the time he had seen Tex bending over one of his father's cows to
the last scene in the thicket. When he had finished, Helen took his head
between her hands, pressing it warmly as she nodded wisely to show that
she understood. He looked deep into her eyes and then suddenly bent
his head until his lips touched her ear: "Helen, darling," he whispered,
"how long must I wait?"

"Why, you scamp!" she exclaimed, teasingly, threatening to draw away from
him. "You haven't even told me that you love me!"

He pressed her hands tightly and laughed aloud, joyously, filled with an
elated, effervescent gladness which surged over him in waves of delight:
"Haven't I? Oh, but you know better, dear. Many and many times I have
told you that, and in many ways, and you knew it and understood. You
never doubted it, and I hope," he added seriously, "that you never will."

"I never will, dear."

They did not hear Grace Ritchie in the kitchen, did not hear her quiet
step as it crossed the threshold and stopped, and then tiptoed to the
rear door and sped lightly around the house to the street, and down it
to where Mrs. Shields and Mary were walking toward the house. They did not
know that half an hour had passed since the coming of the quiet step and
the three women, and that the supper was hopelessly ruined. They knew
nothing--and Everything: they had learned the Great Happiness.

THE END

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