"There was some trouble over beyond Sky Peak a week ago. Will Wire's men ran into lead one night when they was crosscuttin' their range for home."
Denver considered the news thoughtfully. "That's gettin' a little closer to Sundown, ain't it? Usually the boys do their stealin' farther off."
"The time may come when we'll have to do some shootin' on our own account," prophesied Niland.
"Let's wait till the wolf howls first. All I seem to hear at present is a lot of bear talk. Enter Mister Steers, looking very sad. Which foot did the horse step on, Steve?"
"Aw, hell," grunted Steve and reached for a bottle.
"Expressive but vague," was Niland's ironic comment. "Somebody must of hurt your feelin's to the extent of offerin' you a job."
The compact, sandy-haired Steve Steers drank his potion and shuddered. "I don't never seem to get a break, men. Consider this item. I shore want to take in the show tonight, just for old time's sake. But Debbie's off up in Mogul country with her folks on a visit so I can't take her. And if I dared go to see Lola Monterey alone I never would hear the last of it. Nossir, I never seem to get a break."
"Wear false whiskers," suggested Niland.
"They'd fall off," mournfully remarked Steve Steers. "That's my luck. And somebody like Miz Jim Coldfoot would see me and go tell Debbie."
"Love," reflected Niland judicially, "is a mighty purifier of mortal man."
Denver, standing slightly aside and watching Steve out of grave eyes, drawled idly, "Depends on the man, Al. I reckon love would have to be some stronger than hydrochloric acid to purify Steve."
"Love," said Mister Steers. "Ha-ha."
Niland winked discreetly at Denver. "After you're married, Steve, it'll be better."
"Or worse," groaned Steve. "Let's have another drink of this here panther spit."
Stinger Dann was walking flat-footedly away from the bar. In the center of the room he threw a quick glance back to where Dave Denver stood, and his rude, cold eyes seemed to contain a definite challenge. So marked was the gesture that a lull came to Grogan's saloon, and two men standing beyond Dann moved out of range. Denver never stirred. A flare of stronger light flickered up to meet the gunman's challenge, and the rugged features hardened perceptibly. Dann moved on and left the saloon.
"That had all the earmarks of an opening play," said Niland quietly. "Didn't I tell you things was smokin' up hereabouts?"
"Let 'em smoke," mused Denver. "I'm mindin' my own business and having a good time doing it. Maybe I won't always be doin' that, but we'll wait and see."
Cal Steele rolled into the saloon. He marched up to his partners with a flashing, nervous smile. "Well, congratulate me."
"Where yuh been?" demanded Steve Steers.
"Reviving some very pleasant memories," said Steele. He poured himself a drink and tipped the glass to the rest, standing quite erect; undeniably he had a carriage and a polish to him the others lacked. Somewhere along an unknown and carefully concealed past he had lived in gentle and scholarly surroundings, and the reflection of it was on his manners, his acts, and on the features that so easily shifted from high gayety to most bitter cynicism. "I drink, boys, to beauty, to talent, to the eternal flame that is woman—to Lola Monterey!"
Both Niland and Steers looked a little anxiously at the unsmiling Denver. But he nodded his head. "As usual, Cal, you get closer to the actual truth than any man I ever knew. You have described Lola. She is just that."
Cal put down his glass and laid an arm on Denver's shoulder. "And what good does truth do pie, or fine talk? You spoil the game for all of us, Dave. She sent me here. She wants to see you."
Denver's eyes smiled. "And that is a command."
"Association meetin' in a few minutes," grumbled Niland, frowning at Steele.
"I'll see you there," said Denver and went out. Niland spoke his mind to Steele. "Been better if you hadn't brought such a message. Dave ain't the man to cool his feet in Lola's string. They ain't the same kind of people at all."
But Cal Steele shook his head thoughtfully. "I know Lola. She's my kind. Up in the clouds, down in the mud, never still, never happy, easy angered, easy hurt. And"—he looked up—"though she is the most selfish woman in the world, she would give her life for a man she wanted to love. Sounds a little odd, doesn't it, boys? I know. She's my kind. And I happen to know she wants Dave."
"Get out," snorted Steve.
"She told you?" asked Niland skeptically.
"I'm not blind," murmured Cal Steele, face darkly shadowed. "Though I wish I were sometimes. I want her myself. Damned funny, isn't it? Let's drink to Dave and Lola."
Some of the more impatient ranchers were already aiming for the opera house, which had been designated as the meeting place for the Association, when David Denver swung toward the hotel. He heard one of them say rather angrily, "I don't give a damn who it is or how strong his wild bunch may be, we've got to stop it. There's too many people riding around in the dark. If they ain't disposed to sleep at night, then, by the eternal, we'd better give 'em somethin' that'll induce a permanent sleep." But this party seemed the only talkative one; the others were moodily silent, saving their words for formal delivery. Denver's glance swept Sundown slowly and deliberately as he advanced, and his mind registered this and that detail with a photographic distinctness that would, in moments of leisure, serve to help him build up his shrewd judgment of people and events. Stinger Dann had taken post against a wall of the Palace, shaded by the overhanging gallery. By the stable the Ysabel Junction stage was making up for a return trip. Eve Leverage stepped boyishly out of a dry-goods store and smiled at the world. Denver went into the hotel and climbed the stairs with a cloudy restlessness on his cheeks. Swinging down the hall he paused at Number One—the best room of the house—and heard Lola humming huskily inside. For one long interval he stared at the floor; then knocked. The humming stopped, the girl's voice rose with an eager, throaty "come in." Denver pushed the door before him, stepped through, and closed it.
He could not realize as he paused there, studying her with half a frown, rebellious hair tousled on his head, and a somber flare of emotion in the deep wells of his eyes, that he was the exact and unchanged picture of the man she had carried with her for three years; nor could he know that his blunt, "Here I am, Lola," was the exact phrase she felt David Denver would greet her with. But he did know that the old-time belle of the Palace had become a mature beauty. She stood in the center of the room, fine lacework clinging to her breast, jet hair tied severely back, and her lips pursed upon a smile or a cry. A mature beauty, yet still the same vital Lola Monterey, still with a queer, unfathomed glow in those eyes dusted with velvet coloring. She tipped her chin, laughed softly, and then caught her lip between her teeth.
"Here you are, David. You were scowling when I went away. You are scowling now. Is that all you have for me?"
"I suppose other men have told you that you're beautiful, Lola?"
"I suppose. But I have never listened to men as I listen to you. You know that."
"Then I'll say it. Something's rounded you out. There's something inside that body of yours—"
"Misery, maybe. They say it is good for people." She came over to him, brushed her finger tips across her own mouth and placed them on Denver's cheeks. "From me to you. That is my welcome—as I think you know it would always be. I have heard a thousand gallant speeches from men whose gallantry I doubted. It is good to know one man I never have to doubt—and wouldn't doubt even if I had reason. Come, sit down." She put an arm through his elbow and led him to a chair, then crossed and sat facing him.
"You have not changed," she went on swiftly. "And I'm glad—and sorry."
His face cleared and a piece of a smile came to his eyes. "That sounds just like you."
"Well,