"What makes you think I didn't come to see you instead of your dad?" challenged Dave, stepping to the ground.
"I know you better."
"You don't know me at all," he grumbled and sat on the porch steps. Debbie frowned vainly at the empty road and walked into the house. Dave chuckled, and Eve winked at him. "No," pursued Dave, "you don't know me at all. I may not be so doggone brotherly. Maybe my intentions are honorable."
She had walked to a porch table. Her answer came over her shoulder, cool and skeptical. "I'm sure your intentions are honorable, Dave—whatever they may be and whichever way they may be directed."
"That remark sounds simple," he mused, "but there's a delayed punch in it."
"Never mind. Here's a cup of tea, stone cold but good for thirst, anyhow."
He took it, stirred the sugar absently, and drank. Eve sat down beside him. "I heard this afternoon why the Jessons named the baby after you."
He colored a little, self-contained man as he was. "That fool of a Steve—"
"Don't you know by now," she broke in quietly, "there's very little you do that escapes Yellow Hill? People wonder about you and talk about you—and they always will. I have heard other things concerning you—about Dann and about—well, many things."
"Mrs. Jim Coldfoot must have been here," said he.
"Yes."
"I reckon it's impossible to keep folks from trying to guess what they don't know," he muttered.
"No, Dave. But some of those guesses are kind." She drew a breath and added wistfully, "Mine are."
"It's possible they oughtn't be too kind, Eve. I say that to you—and never another soul—because I figure you ought to know. Don't consider me too bad. Don't consider me too good."
"Whatever you were, I doubt if it could change my opinion of you," said she, and turned from the subject. "There's Dad and some of the boys—and the Englishman."
The party trotted up. Leverage looked enormously grave and disturbed; something had shaken his usual carriage. He got heavily down and turned first to his daughter. "You see that some sort of chuck is put on the table right off, Eve. I've got to go out again. Dave, come over to the sheds with me. I want to speak with you."
They walked away from the house. "I came up to tell you my men have cut out about twenty of your drift," said Denver. "We're not too pressed for help, and if you are short-handed I'll just keep your stuff separate until the country's covered, then shoot it over."
"Thanks," grunted Leverage and stopped, casting a glance back. "Dave, I have feared this for a long while, and now it's come. An open break between them and us, nothin' less. They've called our challenge. They mean to make it a bloody mess. Lorn Rue was killed sometime last night over on the Henry trail, about three miles south of the Wells. We just found him an hour ago."
"He was one of your picked men?"
"He was. Somehow or other they knew he was and laid for him. It just means this—there's a leak already in the vigilantes. It means also that they've got the country so well honeycombed that they catch every move we make. Rue was placed carefully to watch the Wells; he went into the country after dead dark. And still they got him! That bothers me.
"You had him in there to watch what the outlaws were going to do?"
"I wanted to get a good fresh trail to follow," admitted Leverage. "That's their nest. They go from the Wells to rustle, and they come back to the Wells to carouse. It's the right place to begin our attack. But," and Leverage ran a hand over his harried cheeks, "my job is going to be plain useless if I can't keep things secret."
"Find any tracks around him?"
Leverage shook his head. "He was right in the trail. All sorts of old tracks and fresh tracks running up and down. Everything mixed up; no help there."
"He must have run into something," reflected Denver, "and they shot him to keep his mouth shut."
"We scouted the ground all ways from his body and didn't get a smell."
"Sure," replied Denver. "If he got too close to some choice spot of theirs they'd lug his body off a considerable distance and drop it."
"I hadn't considered that," grunted Leverage. "Confound it, I need a good man to go in there and scout."
"Rue was a good man—while he lasted," said Denver moodily. "That's the hell of this vigilante business. Rue dies because he's lookin' for somebody that took somebody else's cattle. He didn't have a dime in the transaction. And the fellows who ought to be fighting their own battles are sittin' down this minute to a good dinner. It ain't right, Jake. Pretty soon everybody will be livin' under gunshot law because the Fees and the Clandrys and the Remingtons are either too afraid or too lazy to take care of their own individual affairs. It's a rotten business!"
"I hate to hear you talk thataway," protested Leverage. "It's a common fight. If these rustlers hit the big ranchers and get away with it they'll hit the little ones."
"The rustlers wouldn't get away with it if these aforesaid big ranchers didn't hang back," retorted Denver.
"I wish you was in this with me," sighed Leverage. "There ain't anybody else who could strike a warm trail like you."
Denver considered it silently, violet eyes bent on the distance. "Rue was a friend of mine. I hate to see him go. It ain't easy for me to consider that there'll be other friends knocked down. And it ain't easy to consider that you yourself may be the next."
"I'm in it and I'll stay in it," responded Leverage doggedly. "I consider it a duty."
"Maybe I would, too, if I was able to satisfy myself as to the exact beginnin' of this vigilante idea," mused Denver.
"Listen," broke in Leverage irritably, "are you tryin' to tell me this whole vigilante business was started to throw a smoke cloud over something crooked? Why, that's crazy. The Association voted it. No single man got it going."
"There's always a beginning to an idea—usually in one man's head," was Denver's thoughtful reply. "And I'd never fight for any idea or any man unless I knew more about the preliminary hocus-pocus. But what's the use of our arguin'? If it wouldn't be violating any oath of secrecy, I wish you'd tell me where you intended to concentrate your investigation."
"I'm going into the Sky Peak country."
Denver leaned forward. "I'll say this to you alone and nobody else. Don't. The rustlers have pulled out of it."
"How do you know?" demanded Leverage.
Denver's face lightened. "Maybe I'm not a good enough citizen to join in a public posse, Jake, but I'm at least good enough to keep my ear on the ground. And for the love of heaven don't ride alone in this country. Never. Daylight or dark."
Leverage shrugged his shoulders, and they turned back to the house. The Englishman sat on the steps twirling his hat. When Leverage went inside Nightingale looked at Denver. "Seems to be a touch of the dismal in the air, which reminds me I need some of that honest advice Cal Steele said you were duly competent to render."
"Shoot," drawled Denver, noting another rider appear on the far curve of the road. "I'm good at spendin' other people's money and time."
"I find," said Nightingale, "I have inherited a crew along with a ranch. Nice playful boys, but they seem to think Englishmen are fair game for all sorts of sporty tricks. I also have—or rather had—a foreman who took a sudden dislike to the idea of workin' under a bloomin' foreigner. Rather a queer egg. He is no longer with me."
"Mean you fired Toughy Pound?" asked Denver.
"Well—yes. But somewhat informally."
Denver chuckled. "It'd be Toughy's style to walk out on you. A hard number."
"He didn't walk out," casually corrected Nightingale. "He limped out. Rather a queer custom you have hereabouts as to discharging people.