"Go ahead," directed Major Bob. He had nothing more to say, either that day or the half of the next that they were on the trail. It seemed he wrestled with some bitter problem, a problem that he worried over and over in his mind, trying to reach a conclusion. Whatever the nature of his thoughts, he displayed no outward signals, but Tom made a shrewd guess, and when sunset came he drew Quagmire aside and spoke a brief phrase. Between the two of them they saw the night through, and never for a moment was San Saba beyond the range of their attention.
It was noon of the following day when the guide halted some twenty miles distant from their original destination and pointed at the rugged land ahead. "Thar she be. Water an' grass. Little Mizzoo off yonder two miles."
Major Bob no more than glanced at it. "Very well. Tom, look after things. Throw off the herd. Better ride along a piece and find a place fit to throw up cabins." Then his attention turned to San Saba and his voice filled with tremendous energy. "San Saba, come with me."
San Saba threw up his little head, the tinge of red filming across his pupils. It appeared for a moment that he meant to refuse. But in the end he nodded briefly and followed Major Bob over the ridge. Tom watched them go, stirred by an almost irresistible impulse to pursue the pair. Quagmire must have felt the same emotion, for he crowded toward Tom, muttering, "I'd never trust that gent to my back. I never would."
"No," acquiesced Tom. "But it's Dad's play right now. I can't interfere."
There were other things to do, and he beckoned Quagmire to come with him across the rolling ground on a tour of inspection. It might have been twenty minutes later when they heard the single gunshot come rolling over the ridge, and at the sound of it both their horses turned and raced northward in the direction whence it came. Quagmire shouted at the top of his voice:
"By God, I told yo' I wouldn't trust..."
"Stay back, damn you!" cried Tom. "It's my quarrel now!"
Quagmire reined in, a figure of wrath. Tom raced on up the ridge and down the farther slope. He had less than a mile to go, and he knew the answer to that shot before he slipped from the saddle and went running toward the single figure sprawled on the ground. It was his father; his father trying to hold himself up on an elbow, the blood staining his shirt front and a dimming light flickering from his deeply set eyes. At that precise moment Tom never knew what words came rioting out of his throat, but they caused Major Bob to shake his head sorrowfully.
"He's out of sight now. Never mind going after him. The world is a short and narrow trail for a murderer. I'm done. Gave him a fair break, but he played crooked. Bend down, Son..."
"Which way did he ride? Oh, by God, I'll tear his black heart out of his ribs!"
"In due time, Son. In due time. But I want your promise on that. You'll get him?"
"You've got it!"
"Well, the old flame's in you, Tom. I thought maybe the East had about killed it. Some girl took the sap out of your heart. Watched you on the trail. Wasn't the same boy I'd sent East. Don't go back there any more. Stick to your country—good country for men of our kind. We've got to have air to breathe."
He had only a few words left, and he nursed them along carefully. "Get him. Not just out of spite, Tom. But the Lord hates a traitor, and there ain't any room in the world for his kind. I gave him a fair break. The fool—I knew some of his past history, but I didn't know he was hooked up with Wyatt on this deal. He's always been a good foreman—and I'll forgive a man anything if he does his work well. Trusted him too far. Listen, my boy, it's your Circle G now..."
He stopped, peering at a sun that grew darker for him; a sun he would never see again. "Your Circle G. Good brand. I made it. Carry it on. Something tells me you'll have to fight to hold it. Never mind. Carry it on. That girl—she called the turn on San Saba. Spunky kid. Listen. When you go after San Saba, watch for a trick. Pay no attention to the gun in his holster. He carries another—in his armpit. Got me that way."
After that, the interval of silence was longer. "One of man's duties is to live so's he won't be afraid to die. I'm not afraid. But, by Godfrey, I hate to go! Takes a long time to understand it's a beautiful world. Better make Quagmire your foreman. Good man. Just give me another ten minutes..."
But the angel of death was already laying a cloak over him, leading his spirit down that infinite corridor whither all mortal creatures travel. He gripped Tom's hand, whispering out of the remote distance, "Takes a little bit of Texas blood to christen a new country. I'll—tell—your mamma..."
VI. AN ADVOCATE OF TROUBLE
Major Bob was buried at sunset on a knoll just back from the river. And after the subdued moment of farewell, his name was completely erased from the lips of the crew. Nor would they ever again utter it until time had made a tradition of his memory. Grimly the men went about the infinite chores ahead of them; Tom walked into darkness and was not seen again that night by a living soul. For him there would be always the ring of his father's last words, the memory of the promise he had made. Yet, like the rest, he would give no sign of what that crashing moment of disaster had meant to him. This was a land of the living, a land wherein men displayed a firm countenance to the world and kept their emotions locked away in deep vaults. Not that they were unfeeling or unemotional, for, if the truth were told, the members of that outfit possessed beneath their rough exteriors a womanlike sense of delicacy. But to have openly showed it would have been a confession of weakness. And weakness was fatal.
Of all the outfit Lispenard was the only one to transgress the rule of silence. Possessing no sense of loyalty toward the Circle G, the whole affair left him unmoved. In fact it struck him as being grimly grotesque, a parody on a play he had once seen back East. And he utterly missed the significance of the crew's holding aloof from Tom that night. At supper he marked Tom's absence, and it made him suggest that the cook bang the pan a little louder. "Nobody likes cold beans and coffee."
Not a word was said in answer, and presently, irked by the unresponsiveness, he spoke again.
"I used to think a man was batty when he got to the stage of talking to himself. Now I know different. Either I talk to myself or I howl at the moon like a poisoned wolf. Ever hear that story..."
Quagmire flung his emptied tin plate on the ground so hard that it skipped into the fire. "Oh, shut up! Ain't you got a lick of sense?"
Lispenard reared his head, and the sudden access of fury within him made his heavy lips tremble. He would have called Quagmire to account on the spot save that every eye was bent upon him in cold disfavour; it was the same expression he had met with ever since the second day from Dodge. He had no friends in that outfit, and well he understood the fact. If San Saba were only here now...At the thought he called himself to account. The foreman was a murderer and a fugitive. No, that wasn't exactly so, according to Western standards. San Saba had only exercised his privilege of shooting first; the man had gotten good and tired of the oppressive Circle G atmosphere—just as he, Claude Lispenard, was beginning to tire of it. And San Saba had been man enough to give vent to his feelings. The Blond Giant mildly applauded him for the act. Rising, he walked into the shadows. According to the Western code, a man was responsible only to his conscience, and at the thought Lispenard grinned up to the sky. It was a comforting thought, especially to one whose conscience had always chafed a little under restraint. A comforting thought.
"By George," he muttered. "I like this country. Not all the cursed work and grit of a cattle herd, but I like the free-and- easy idea. Some of these days I'll drift away on my own hook. After I get better acquainted with that little spitfire. Wasn't she a beauty, though!"
Dawn and work. Let dead men rest; this land laid down its challenge—struggle or be defeated. And in the subsequent two days Tom Gillette recalled the ominous phrase his father had voiced. "Something tells me you'll have to fight to hold it." So it would be. To begin with, this little corner of Dakota seemed more barren than almost any piece of ground they had