"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. He stated that he was loath to leave unless bounced three times on the seat of his pants, and wouldn't I kindly attempt to do same."
"And so you did?" queried Denver, grinning broadly.
The Englishman flicked the ashes off his cigarette. "Well, y'know, if that is the custom of the country, it's naturally up to me to oblige. Not so? Therefore, to make the ceremony quite effective and proper, I bounced him four times. Now I need a new foreman. I will cheerfully bend to your suggestions."
Denver studied the approaching rider. "You want a good man, a man that understands the country and the cattle business. You want a fellow able to swing the work of the ranch on his own hook and also able to polish off any scissorbill puncher. Also, and most important, you want a fellow who is proud enough to do his job without unnecessary advice from you."
"Is there such a man?" asked Nightingale. "If so, I'll give him the bloomin' ranch and go fishin'."
"Behold the man," said Denver, pointing to the advancing Steers. "He looks good, and he's better than he looks."
Steve Steers jingled across the yard, casting an apprehensive glance through Leverage's front door.
"You got a job," announced Denver. Steve's countenance expressed dismay. "Shucks, Dave, I just had a job. Where's Debbie?"
"Listen to me, you homely bunchgrass biter," stated Denver firmly, "this is a job. You are now foreman of Mr. Nightingale's Bucket outfit. Your pay is eighty dollars. You run the ranch and everybody that's on it, high, wide, and handsome. No interference. I'm responsible for the suggestion, and, by golly, you've got to sweat!"
"Accept the nomination," said Steve.
"Seems settled," remarked Nightingale calmly and rose to depart. "Now, ah, Steve—should I ask a few questions around my ranch or call on you for an occasional pony to ride, I trust I shan't be considered as intrudin'." With that he galloped off.
Eve and Debbie Lunt came from the house. Debbie went to her waiting mount and was seated in the saddle before the ambling Steve could get around to help her. She looked sweetly at him and with equal sweetness remarked:
"You're a little late, Steve."
"Yeah, Debbie," he muttered.
Together they rode away, Steve looking straight ahead, the girl stiffly erect and silent. Watching them depart, Eve shook her head. "That sounded too much like Mrs. Jim and her husband. Debbie's not wise to carry on so, and Steve's not wise to let her."
"The girl's not bad," reflected Dave, "but she figures she's got to hold the whip on a man to make him mind. One of these days she'll slap him a little too hard."
Eve was surprised at his accurate knowledge of Deborah Lunt and said so. "I'm afraid you know more about women than you ought, Dave. You're staying to supper?"
"Wish I could. But the day's almost gone, and I want to look at a stretch of country