The Project Gutenberg eBook of Powder law
    
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Title: Powder law

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Illustrator: Jr. H. C. Murphy


        
Release date: April 14, 2026 [eBook #78441]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1922

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78441

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POWDER LAW ***

                               POWDER LAW

                            By W. C. Tuttle
         Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Sheriff of Sun-Dog,” etc.

When the Evil Spirit was very young, he desired to live upon the earth.
Being an Evil Spirit, the land was too fair for his abode; so he builded
himself a land upon a land.

Being very young, his dwelling pleased him for a time, but like a child
he soon tired of it, after which he destroyed it with a sweep of his
hands. The tale is true. This place was surely made by a spirit, and
would the Great Spirit build such a place as this?--_Indian Legend_.

                   *       *       *       *       *

As proof of this legend they point to the Mauvaises Terres, the Bad
Lands of eastern Montana; mute evidences of the one-time devil’s
playground. White men call it a freak of nature, this desolate region;
peopled with shadow-ghosts, grotesque architecture, not made by human
hands, where the blizzards of Winter howl and shriek through cave and
column, and where the heat gods dance through the short Summers. Freak
of nature, it may be--devil’s playground, it is.

It was the Summer of 1880, nine years before Montana was admitted to
the sisterhood of States; a time when the laws of God and man were but
vague shadows of the future or of a forgotten past; a time when right
and wrong were but an individual point of view.

History does not touch this period of the West, except to tell briefly
of troubles with the Cheyenne and Sioux, who merely fought to repel the
invader. But this tale is not of the Indian, but of another menace of
that day, which is not mentioned in history.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Skirting the border of the Bad Lands came two mounted men, leading a
pack-horse. The man in the lead, riding a tall gray horse, drew rein
at the top of a small butte. He removed his sombrero and wiped the
perspiration from his brow, with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Blaze” Carlin was a striking figure of a man, as he sat his horse with
the ease attained by none except men who live their lives atop a horse.
His hair was long and as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, except
for a strip, at least two inches wide of snow-white hair, which began at
the center of his forehead and ended at the crown of his head. From this
peculiarity he received his nickname.

His forehead was broad, his cheek-bones prominent, and a generous
mouth smiled from beneath a high-arched nose. He was as bronzed as a
savage. In fact, at first glance, one would have called him a Sioux,
but there was a hint of Celtic blood in his upper lip and mouth, and
his eyes, a slaty-gray, did not fit the rest of his features nor
coloring. It was as if an artist had used a Sioux model; painting in
an Irish smile and blue-gray eyes and finished it off by drawing a
full brush of white through the center of the hair.

The other man was small and wiry, bearded to the eyes, which were as
black and luminous as jet beads. His nose was hooked, like the beak of
an eagle. While Blaze Carlin was dressed in the height of cowboy
fashion, this little man, “Frenchy” Ditteau, wore an old, half-fringed
buckskin shirt, plaid, blanket pants and short boots. Across the fork
of their saddles, both men carried Sharp’s rifles.

Frenchy Ditteau rode up beside Blaze, took out a plug of tobacco and a
heavy clasp-knife and began to cut a pipeful of tobacco.

“Bimeby we strike de town, eh, Blaze?”

Blaze Carlin nodded, but continued to stare ahead. He brushed his hand
across his eyes and turned his head.

“I reckon so, Frenchy. This heat kinda makes things look queer and
this danged country makes yuh see things what ain’t; but I thought I
seen seven men riding toward the sun. Maybe they was buffalo, but I
don’t think so.”

“You got de good eye,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m mak’ de bet that she’s not
be de buffalo.”

Blaze smiled at his companion. He had first met little Frenchy Ditteau
in a saloon near Deadwood; a saloon filled with powder-smoke and
struggling men. He had seen Frenchy empty his pistol and then fling
himself headlong into the muzzles of spouting pistols, slashing with
his knife and yelling like a Comanche.

The odds were sadly against Frenchy; therefore Blaze accepted part
of the battle. Frenchy had been scored in several places, but Blaze
managed to get him to the hitch-rack, where they got mounted and rode
out of the town.

“Where yuh headed for?” Blaze had asked.

“Some place,” said Frenchy vaguely. “I’m t’ink dis town she’s not be
friend to me and you, pardnair. Where you go?”

“Some place,” grinned Blaze and they galloped out of town, headed north.

Blaze Carlin was a gambler, but an honest one. He had no visions of
making a big stake. Gambling to Blaze was an obsession rather than a
profession. He knew the cattle business, knew that his riding and
roping ability would earn him a job in any cow-country. Money meant
nothing to him except a chance to pit his judgment against other
men.

He had ridden away with Frenchy Ditteau for the simple reason that
he knew the town would be against him for his part in the battle and
partly because he admired the heart of a man who would pit his knife
against pistols. He did not ask Frenchy the reasons for the fight,
because it was none of his affair, and Frenchy did not explain. It
was merely an incident. Frenchy was utterly indifferent as to his
destination. Blaze suggested Medora.

“Ba gosh, dat’s de place!” declared Frenchy.

“How about headin’ up into Montana where the new railroad is comin’
through?” asked Blaze.

“We go dere sure!” exclaimed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to see de railroad.”

Blaze laughed.

“Ain’t you got no choice, Frenchy?”

“To go wit’ you,” grinned Frenchy and the partnership pact was sealed.

For miles they had skirted the Bad Lands, seeking to strike into the
big cattle-ranges, but as yet they had found no signs of human
habitation. Frenchy lighted his pipe and they rode on. About half a
mile farther on they came to a brushy coulée, and partly hid away in
the brush they could see the half-log, half-mud cabin of a squatter.

“Hittin’ closer to civilization,” observed Blaze pointing at the cabin.

Frenchy drew slowly at his unlighted pipe, his eyes squinted in a steady
focus on some object.

“What do yuh see?” asked Blaze.

Frenchy did not reply, but spurred his horse down the edge of the
coulée. Blaze, after another look, followed him, driving the pack-horse
ahead of him. A trail, hammered hard by cloven hoofs, led straight down
through the brush to the rear of the cabin.

Near the side of the cabin grew a stunted cottonwood tree, and hanging
to a large branch by a noosed rope was the figure of a man. Blaze and
Frenchy dismounted and walked around the tree. The body was tightly
bound with ropes, and pinned to the breast of the dead man’s shirt was
a square of paper on which was crudely printed--

                           A WARNIN TO ALL

It was signed with a large V. Frenchy folded his arms and puffed loudly
on his pipe while Blaze read it aloud.

“You spik true,” nodded Frenchy. “We are close to de civilize folks,
Blaze.”

“That V would be for vigilantes,” mused Blaze. “Did yuh ever hear of
them, Frenchy?”

Frenchy shook his head.

“They’re a bunch of fellers who takes the law in their own hands,”
explained Blaze. “When the law can’t or won’t do the job right, then
the vigilantes steps in.”

“Mm-m-m,” mumbled Frenchy. “She’s hang de bad-man, eh? All de time she’s
do no-ting to de good man?”

“I don’t reckon they’re supposed to,” said Blaze.

“When de vigilante she’s hones’ man, she’s only tak’ away de bad-man,
eh? Me, I’m mak’ t’ink she’s bad t’ing if de bad-man mak’ himself
vigilante. W’at you t’ink, Blaze?”

The crude wisdom of Frenchy had picked out the flaw of the vigilante
system--a system which was efficient in bringing terror to outlawry
in the old West, but which went beyond its intention and became the
weapon of unscrupulous men, who used it to further their own ends.

“I reckon you’re right, Frenchy,” admitted Blaze, after thinking over
Frenchy’s words. “Maybe they won’t thank us for buryin’ their victim,
bein’ as they kinda leaves ’em hangin’ around as a warnin’; but we’ll
take a chance.”

They cut the rope. The man was well past middle-age, his hair and beard
almost white. Blaze examined him closely. One of his legs lay in an
unnatural position, and Blaze discovered that the man was a cripple. He
examined the man’s hands and got to his feet as Frenchy appeared with a
shovel and a pick.

“Why you t’ink dey string him up for?” asked Frenchy. “Bad-man, you
t’ink?”

“He was a cripple, Frenchy.” Blaze spoke softly, as if afraid the dead
man might hear. “His knee is all crooked and his hands are tied in knots
from rheumatism. He couldn’t neither run nor hold a gun.”

Frenchy turned away and began digging. Blaze watched him for a time and
then picked up the shovel.

“I’m mak’ t’ink,” observed Frenchy leaning on his pick, “I’m t’ink I’m
mad like ---- for de vigilant. Mebbe she’s de law, but jus’ de same----”

“He couldn’t run nor hold a gun,” said Blaze.

“Me and you t’ink alike, mos’ always,” nodded Frenchy.

Neither of them knew anything of the burial service. The victim of
the vigilantes was rolled in an old blanket and buried beside the old
cottonwood tree. The interior of the cabin did not disclose the man’s
identity. It was crudely furnished and did not show long occupancy.
There was no sign of any firearms and the food supply was low. They
fastened the door and rode on.

The sun was an hour high when they reached a large stream of water
flowing down a small valley. The stream was lined with willow and
cottonwood, which cut a green gash through that sun-baked country.
Several head of range cattle whirled out of the willows at their
approach, wild as partridge.

“We’re into the cow-country at last,” smiled Blaze, as they rode into
the willows.

Frenchy nodded. They followed a trail through the brush and drew up at
the bank of the stream.

“Somebody mak’ de sign,” observed Frenchy, pointing at a sign on a big
cottonwood, which grew near the bank.

Blaze rode in close to the tree and read the notice aloud.

                                 WARNIN
                           THIS LAND BELONG TO
                                BLACK MORA
                            NO BODY ALLOW HERE

Frenchy snorted his disgust.

“Shall we move on?” asked Blaze.

“I’m mak’ de wet camp today,” declared Frenchy. “I’m no want Black
Mora’s land--I’m jus’ want to camp. We stay.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Blaze. “A man in Deadwood told me something
about him. Big cattleman, I reckon. Wants to run the country.”

“Mebbe de countree she’s no run,” grinned Frenchy, taking the swing-rope
off the pack. “We tak’ chance.”

Both of the men owned camp-broke horses and there was no need of hopple
or picket-rope. The three horses moved up the stream, cropping at the
green grass, while the men prepared camp. Blaze happened to glance
across the creek just in time to see a rider disappearing over a ridge.
He was close enough for Blaze to see that the man was looking at their
camp.

“One of Black Mora’s spies,” said Blaze pointing him out to Frenchy, but
the man disappeared before Frenchy could locate him.

“We’ll give the horses an hour on the grass and then tie ’em up,”
stated Blaze. “Yuh never can tell what kind of a hornet this Mora is
and we might need a horse under us real quick.”

“Ba gosh, I’m prepare for de night!” Frenchy’s beard and mustache seemed
to fuzz out like the whiskers on an angry bobcat.

He patted his pistol butt.

“I’m hard man for mak’ move, but jus’ as you say, Blaze. Mebbe she’s
de good idea for have de horse handy, for de reason dat mebbe we have
to chase dis Black Mora, eh?”

Blaze laughed, but Frenchy was serious. In anything except a fight the
little Frenchman had the heart of a child, but the prospect of trouble
seemed to add inches to his height and his black eyes became bead-like
in their intensity.

They cooked and ate their supper and then Blaze caught the horses, tying
them near camp. Blaze had been keeping a close watch across the creek,
expecting trouble to come from that direction, if at all. Suddenly he
heard Frenchy grunt softly. Two men had ridden in from the rear, making
no sound on the soft trail, and were almost to the fire before Frenchy
saw them.

One was a tall, swarthy, black-mustached person, with an arrogant
expression. The other was a trifle smaller, with mouse-colored hair,
one empty eye-socket and a badly scarred face. Both men carried rifles
and wore pistols.

Blaze looked them over carefully. The tall man, after staring hard at
Blaze, pointed at the sign, his long, bony forefinger quivering as he
seemed to put his soul into the gesture.

“You see that sign?” he grunted.

“Still havin’ my sight,” nodded Blaze.

The man seemed shocked to think that Blaze had seen it and still
disregarded its warning. His hand dropped to his side and he frowned
at Blaze. Frenchy was standing near the other rider, his legs braced
far apart, his unlighted pipe between his lips.

“This here land belongs to Mora,” stated the tall man.

“Who is Mora?” asked Blaze easily.

“Black Mora? You don’t know?”

“Nigger?” asked Frenchy.

The man turned his head and shot a withering glance at Frenchy, but
Frenchy’s glare was just as deadly and the man turned back to Blaze.

“You git off this land! Mora don’t allow nobody here. I’ll give you--”
he glanced around at the meager outfit and turned back to Blaze--“I’ll
give yuh half-hour to git off this ranch.”

Blaze rubbed his chin and considered the order.

“You work for Black Mora?” he asked.

“I shore do.”

“Know him well enough to take a message to him?”

“I shore do.”

“Then tell him that Blaze Carlin told him to go to ----.”

“Mak’ de message from Frenchy Ditteau, too,” added Frenchy. “Mak’ her
read de same.”

The tall man’s eyes narrowed for an instant and his shoulder seemed to
hunch. Blaze Carlin’s hand crooked at the wrist and his Colt .44 split
the stillness of the creek bottom. The tall man’s arm swung forward,
seemed to crumple at the elbow and his pistol fell to the ground.

At the first motion of the draw, Frenchy had sprung forward and upward,
grasping the other man by the belt and yanking him off his horse. The
man drew a gun as Frenchy tore him loose from the saddle, but the gun
went spinning into the bushes.

Blaze paid no attention to Frenchy and the other man. The tall man’s
rifle slid to the ground, and his frightened horse backed until its
rump struck a tree, which made it jerk forward, almost unseating its
rider, whose arm seemed to occupy all his attention. Frenchy had
flung his man to the ground and pinned his arms.

“Ba gosh, I’m hope for de good fight, but I’m mak’ mistake,” grunted
Frenchy.

“You’ll have a chance to use your left arm for a while,” stated Blaze,
but the tall man did not reply.

Frenchy let his man get up, but kept a hand twisted in his collar.

“You heard the message we sent to Black Mora, didn’t yuh?” asked Blaze.
“Now, maybe you’re tamed enough to carry it to him.”

“You goin’ to turn dem loose?” asked Frenchy. “Ba gosh, you got sof’
heart. Whoa!”

Frenchy yanked his man backward and proceeded to administer the toe of
his boot to the spot designated by precedent for such a proceeding and
alternately yanked and booted the man all the way to his horse, which
the man managed to mount.

“Vamoose!” snapped Blaze.

The men rode away; one of them hugging a shattered right arm, and the
other standing high in his stirrups and trying to keep his frightened
horse to a comfortable walk.

Frenchy proceeded to shave a pipeful of tobacco, and lighted it from
the fire embers. He turned and looked at Blaze who was leaning against
a tree, watching in the direction of the disappearing horsemen.

“Blaze,” Frenchy puffed furiously, “Blaze, I’m t’ink dem two feller get
sore from us. You mak’ ---- good shot for break hees arm. Eh?”

“Good shot! Lucky shot, Frenchy--lucky for him. I never shot at his arm.
You had a lot of nerve to yank that other feller plumb off his horse.”

“Nerve--me?” Frenchy laughed heartily. “Why, Blaze, I’m so ---- scare
dat I’m forget my gun. Ho, ho, ho!”

They both laughed. Frenchy had seen Blaze shoot the heads off sage-hens,
and Blaze had seen Frenchy fighting with a knife against roaring
pistols, but neither was seeking glory in the other’s eyes.

“We’ll move back a ways as soon as it gets dark,” stated Blaze. “This
ain’t the end of it, Frenchy. Maybe we better pack up and pull out.”

“_Non!_” Frenchy shook his head vehemently. “I’m back up a little, but
no pack de horse and run away. We got two rifle an’ two pistol more den
we have biffore dey come. Ho, ho, ho!”

Frenchy collected the four guns, which were loaded. The rifles were
Sharp’s, the ammunition of which fitted their rifles, but the two
pistols would be useless to them after the rounds were fired, as they
both used smaller caliber than those carried by Blaze and Frenchy.

Blaze kept a close watch until dark and then they moved their blankets
farther back from the creek after throwing more wood on the fire. But
there was no further sign of Black Mora or his men that night.

They were up at daylight. Blaze started to get breakfast, while Frenchy
climbed up into the branches of a cottonwood where he perched like an
owl with his rifle across his lap.

Blaze laughed at Frenchy, but Frenchy was serious.

“I’m mak’ t’ink,” said Frenchy, “I’m mak’----”

He broke off, rose a little higher and swung the heavy rifle to his
shoulder. A moment later the big rifle bellowed. Blaze sprang across
the fire and picked up his rifle.

“What yuh shootin’ at?” he demanded.

Frenchy extracted the empty cartridge and blew into the breech of his
rifle before replying.

“De sonn of a gonn go creep, creep along to git behin’ de big rock. Ho,
ho, ho! I’m push de dirt in his face. He turn over lak----”

Frenchy threw up his rifle and fired as it leveled. He waved the cloud
of smoke away with a sweep of his hand.

“Dat’s anodder one, Blaze. I miss him pretty close, I tell you dat.
Whoa!”

Frenchy shifted excitedly.

“Blaze, you pack de cayuse ---- quick! I’m mak’ t’ink dat sonn of a gonn
has de army work for him. I hol’ dem off, I tell you.”

Bullets began to whiz through the foliage and thump into the tree
trunks. Blaze hurriedly packed the horse and then threw on the two
saddles, while Frenchy swore alternately in English and French and
punctuated his oaths with lead from his old Sharps.

“All set, Frenchy,” called Blaze, swinging into his saddle.

Frenchy fired again and swung down to the ground.

“Go straight down dis side,” ordered Frenchy. “I’m have dem stopped.”

They rode away as swiftly as possible, keeping in the willows. For a
while it looked as if they had thrown off the attackers, but as soon
as they crossed the creek and struck into more open country they found
that there was a strong possibility of more trouble.

One bunch of horsemen were behind them, while another bunch had circled
into the hills to head them off. They pulled up and considered the
matter. A long-range bullet dusted the ground at their horses’ feet,
fired from the bunch in the hills. They could see the riders across the
creek as they checked up at the edge of the stream.

“W’at we do now--fight?” asked Frenchy.

Blaze considered. The horsemen in the hills were still swinging around
as if to join forces with those at the creek.

“They’ve headed us off in that direction,” observed Blaze, “and it
appears to me that they’re danged awful sure that we want to go
thataway. Well, we’ll take a chance and go up the creek instead. We
may have to lose our pack-horse.”

“My blanket she’s on de pack, and I stay wit’ my bed,” declared Frenchy.
“De pack-horse run lak ----. Come on.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They turned and spurred into a gallop, traveling parallel to the creek,
but in open country. There were six men in the bunch which had circled
them, and five more in the crowd at the creek. Now they joined and came
racing up the same side of the creek.

Both Blaze and Frenchy were well mounted, but the pack-animal, seeming
to sense the need of haste, passed Frenchy, who was leading it.

“Go so fas’ as you like!” yelled Frenchy and threw the rope across the
pack, turning the animal loose.

They swung over a knoll and around the side of a steep slope, jumping
mesquite and greasewood, and found themselves a short distance from a
rambling ranch-house, which stood in the center of a clearing about
three acres in extent. A long low stable and a big pole corral were
between them and the house, and a pole fence surrounded the house and
barn. The center pole of the bars was in place and the pack-animal
tried to jump it, but the horse was not built for hurdling and came
to grief.

Blaze’s horse cleared the bar and the struggling pack animal, and
Frenchy’s horse barely clicked the rail as it went over. The pack-animal
struggled to its feet, kicked at a loose rope and galloped after its
master. Blaze and Frenchy swung down at the door of the ranch-house,
turning the horses loose, and then went straight toward the open stalls
of the barn, as if they had lived there all their lives.

Came a whirl of dust and the panting horses, as the pursuers clattered
up to the bars. Blaze threw up his rifle and sent a bullet past their
heads and they spurred to one side out of sight. Blaze kicked open the
door, almost in the face of a fat Indian squaw, who was coming to the
door to see what was going on. She stared blankly at the two men.

“Whose place is this?” asked Blaze.

“Black Mora,” replied the stolid aborigine.

“Where is he?”

“I dunno. He ride away with men.” The squaw spoke in halting English.

“This is going to be a hard place to leave,” observed Blaze, but Frenchy
was chuckling as he leaned over a rough table.

“Look, Blaze!” he called. “Here’s plenty shell for de rifle. Fill up de
belt and use de pocket for de rest. She’s good place to fin’.”

Blaze stepped over to the table and filled his belt from fresh boxes.
Frenchy stuffed his pockets full and then put more inside his shirt.

“Ba gosh, she’s goin’ to be wan good fight, I’m tell you, Blaze.”

Blaze stepped to a window and saw a man running to get behind the barn.
Another was stooped low, running farther to the left where another old
building would give him cover. Blaze looked around the room, which was
about twenty by thirty feet in size. There were four doors, two opening
outside, and the other two were connected with the rooms at each end.
All the doors were fitted with heavy bars.

It was only a moment’s work to throw the bars into place. The squaw
watched Blaze, but her fat face expressed no emotion. The strange doings
of the white men did not cause any wonder in her one-idea brain. Blaze
grinned at her lack of interest.

“You like Black Mora?” he asked.

The squaw glanced at Blaze and then spat disgustedly.

“Either she hates him or she don’t like my question,” grinned Blaze.

The windows, of which there was one at each side of the room, were
composed of two small panes of glass set in crude frames. Frenchy
dumped the extra cartridges onto a shelf near the rear window, placed
his pistol beside them, and calmly knocked one of the panes of glass
out. Then he produced his plug of tobacco and clasp-knife and then
grinned at Blaze, who was looking at the squaw.

“Blaze, you better knock out de little window and git ready for fight.
Plenty time for de love-mak’ after de wil’ man she’s went away. Ho, ho,
ho!”

Frenchy chuckled heartily over his crude joke.

Blaze went back to the window and poked out one of the panes, only to
have a bullet ricochet off the barrel of his rifle and buzz across the
room like an angry bee.

“Ho, ho, ho!” chortled Frenchy. “De dance she is begin, Blaze. I’m hope
she don’t all dance from your side, biccause my feet she’s itch for git
busy.”

Blaze fired and was rewarded by a yell from the barn.

“Ba gosh, you don’t miss dat feller,” chuckled Frenchy. “I’m can tell de
yelp from de ol’ Sharp’s bullet. She’s----”

Thump! A bullet tore through the mud chinking of the cabin near
Frenchy’s window, and Blaze turned to see Frenchy with both hands
clapped to his face, dancing a circle. He sprang across the room and
grasped Frenchy’s arm.

“Where’d it hit yuh?” he asked.

“De ---- mud-daubers t’row dirt in my eye! Go back to your own side. Dis
feller be-long to me, ba gosh!”

The squaw had sat down on the floor at the end of the room and watched
the two men. She glanced at the wall, where a bullet tore into some
medicine bottles on a crude shelf, but there was neither wonder nor
anxiety in her face. Frenchy crouched flat against the wall, leaning
out far enough to fire and then leaning back to reload.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The attack was growing stronger now, as the Black Mora crowd found
points of vantage, and they searched the house with lead from every
angle. Blaze was shooting methodically, while Frenchy grew voluble
with French epithets and drilled his initials on a shed door, where
three men had fired at his window from a loop-hole in the logs.

Two men had attempted to reach the door of a small building about sixty
yards from Blaze, but both of them failed. Blaze could see no reason for
any one sacrificing his life to reach this building. Another man had
come in from the rear of this building, which was built on such an angle
that Blaze could only see the front and one side, and had sneaked in on
the far side to the front.

His hand shot out in an attempt to lift the barred door, in which
attempt he had succeeded, but Blaze shot carefully and the man’s hand
went out of commission. The heavy door swung open, but no man seemed
foolhardy enough to try to reach the shelter of the interior.

Luckily for both Blaze and Frenchy the bullets were all coming from
one direction. There was no cover from one side, consequently they
were able to stay close to the window without danger of cross-fire.
The remaining panes of glass were long since gone and the casing and
log-ends on one side of each window had been chewed to a pulp with
rifle bullets. Occasionally a bullet would splinter through the
doors, but the thick seasoned wood mushroomed the soft lead until it
was practically harmless.

“De gun she get ---- hot,” observed Frenchy, grinning across at Blaze.
“How many you get?”

Blaze shook his head.

“I dunno, Frenchy. I’ve got two down in sight and I put a bullet through
one feller’s hand. Couple more I kinda figured to ache up a little, but
they seem to keep shootin’.”

“I’m not got none for sure.” Frenchy seemed downhearted over this fact.
“I’m got t’ree inside de little house, one behin’ a pile of poles, and
anodder one she’s get in hole in de ground. I’m mak’ t’ink Frenchy
Ditteau ---- poor shot.”

He leveled his rifle and fired again.

“Ho, ho, ho! De sonn of a gonn she try to come out of de hole. I’m mak’
bet she’s change her mind.”

Blaze nodded and grinned. His rifle barrel was so hot he could hardly
hold it. Suddenly the squaw got to her feet. She sniffed at the air.
Blaze watched her.

“Fire come,” she said slowly. “House afire.”

Blaze sniffed, but the room was hazy with powder smoke.

“I smell,” stated the squaw. “Black Mora set house on fire.”

“The same of which complicates things,” observed Blaze.

“I’m mak’ t’ink we trapped,” said Frenchy. “Mus’ go way pretty soon,
Blaze.”

A trickle of smoke began to show under one of the connecting doors and
Blaze stepped over to smell of it.

“Wood smoke, Frenchy. They’ve set fire to our little fort.”

Blaze stepped back to his rifle, but there was no one in sight. Frenchy
peered out of his window, but there was no sign of his targets. Black
Mora had decided to smoke out his quarry. Blaze watched the squaw walk
to the farther corner of the room, where she dragged a crude bunk away
from the wall. She threw aside a pile of old sacks and skins and lifted
a trap-door.

“Cellar?” queried Blaze.

“You come,” ordered the squaw, and started down a short ladder.

Blaze and Frenchy each took a last look from the windows and, as there
was no sign of the besiegers, they followed the squaw.

Instead of a cellar they found a narrow low tunnel shored up with small
timbers. It was pitch dark and the tunnel was barely wide enough for
them to squeeze through; but they followed in single-file behind the fat
squaw. It seemed as if they had gone a mile, when the squaw stopped and
straightened up. Blaze reached out his hand and felt the rungs of a pole
ladder, up which the squaw had started.

Came the creak of boards and the tunnel was flooded with light, as the
squaw lifted another trap-door letting them into a small log-room. The
open door gave them a view of part of the house they had just left.

“This is where them fellers wanted to get,” whispered Blaze
understandingly. “No wonder they took a chance. They could go through
the tunnel, open the trap under that old bunk and nail us both.”

“Sure t’ing,” nodded Frenchy. “Gran’ scheme, Blaze. Look at de house
burn.”

The ranch-house was composed of three large rooms, and the fire had been
started in the north end. Black Mora had taken no chances in trying to
smash the connecting door, after seeing the defenders’ shooting ability;
so he decided on the Indian method of routing them out.

Blaze and Frenchy crouched near the door, watching the flames eat into
the seasoned logs. One end of the house was burning fiercely, and it
was only a question of a short time until the whole building would be
in flames.

The squaw sat down in a corner, stolidly watching the fire as if having
no interest in it whatever. Blaze and Frenchy knew that at least six
rifles covered the front and rear doors of the ranch-house, and were
also fairly sure that the men behind those rifles believed that their
quarry must soon break for liberty.

Blaze examined the walls of their room, but there was no exit except
the half-open door. The squaw looked at Blaze and seemed to understand
what he was looking for. Flames were soaring from the ranch-house. Came
the shrill nicker of a horse; a man’s voice cried an order, but above
it all came the splintering crash as the pole and mud roof of one end
of the ranch-house collapsed.

The squaw got to her feet and backed into a corner. The two men
watched her as she fumbled along the chinking between two logs.
Suddenly she shoved with her shoulder, and a section composed of two
logs swung outward. The aperture was large enough to allow a man to
pass through and through it they could see their three horses near
the barn, watching the fire.

The logs had been cut in such a way and so hinged that they could only
be opened from the inside. Evidently Black Mora had more need of an exit
than an inlet.

“You go,” urged the squaw. “Everybody look fire.”

Blaze held out his hand to her, but she seemed ignorant of a hand-shake.
He slipped a large opal ring from his finger and handed it to her. She
understood this and smiled happily. It was Blaze Carlin’s mascot, but he
gave it willingly. He and Frenchy slipped out the aperture and the logs
closed behind them.

By going straight to their horses they could keep the small cabin
between them and Mora’s men, unless the men had moved lately. Ducking
low, they raced for the horses, but no shot followed them. It was but
a moment’s work to lead their horses around the corner of the barn and
there they found a huddled group of saddle-horses, snorting from fright
of the fire.

Frenchy chortled gleefully and wanted to cut the saddle-cinches, but
Blaze stopped him. He was not afraid of Mora’s men catching him once
they got away and there was a chance that the gang might believe that
they perished in the flames.

Frenchy grumbled at losing the chance of spoiling all possibility of
pursuit, but spurred out of the clearing, riding swiftly down the
creek, around the first curve and into the hills, while behind them
a black cloud of smoke pillared into the sky.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Frenchy threw back his head and whooped gleefully. “Nobody
she’s allow on Mora’s lan’, eh? Blaze, you ever hear ’bout Nero?”

Blaze shook his head.

“She’s lak’ to be de boss, too,” explained Frenchy. “She’s fire de town
of Rome and den she feedle.”

“She done what?” asked Blaze.

“Feedle, feedle, feedle!” Frenchy imitated the motions of playing a
fiddle. “She’s mak’ music for de fire.”

“Must ’a’ been loco, Frenchy.”

“Jus’ so. Mak’ good shepherd, eh, Blaze?”

“Make a good pardner for Black Mora.”

“Ba gosh, dat’s de fac’. Bot’ crazy. No man can run dis countree a-lone.
Mebby she mak’ big try, but bimeby somebody she’s come along and no run.
Bam! One man no run, anodder man she’s see and she’s quit run. Bimeby
everybody quit run. Den de man who run de countree mus’ run fas’ or de
countree run over him.”

Blaze laughed at the wisdom of Frenchy Ditteau. Back of Frenchy’s
black eyes was a keen mind; a brain capable of doing bigger things
than fighting battles in border countries or trapping for furs.

The country needed keen minds, but Frenchy Ditteau loved action too well
to live long enough in any one place. Blaze was also a drifter. The
clink of poker chips, the lure of the green cloth was in his blood. His
long, muscular fingers itched for the feel of playing-cards, but above
it all was an indefinite longing to do something worth while.

Blaze was better educated than the majority of cowboys. He did not
remember his mother; and his father was but a hazy, unreal sort of a
person. Thrown on his own at an early age, he had grown to manhood,
unsullied by his environment. He rode hard, drank moderately, and
fought ferociously, but something in his soul seemed to cleave a
deep line between right and wrong. Men said that Blaze Carlin was
too honest to be a gambler--an honor conferred to few gamblers in
those wild days.

To the six-shooter has been the glory of winning the West, but it took
brains behind the gun to do this. Perhaps the six-shooter did much to
hold back the West--the six-shooter plus lax laws, or no law at all.

Very often a sheriff was elected for his pistol ability, regardless of
his fitness for the office, and only too often they combined with evil
powers to loot behind the mantle of the law.

At times an honest sheriff was elected when the law-abiding element was
in the majority; but the majority were unable to give their assistance
when the lawless combined against his authority.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Wolf Butte was a county-seat in a territorial county; a county so vast
that a man could ride for a week and never reach a boundary-line. Range
cattle mingled with the buffalo. Men were neighbors at fifty miles.
Towns were very few and far between, with Wolf Butte the metropolis.
Therefore Wolf Butte flourished, roughly speaking and more roughly
acting.

It was a town of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-places, where
hard-bitted men came to revel in wine, painted women and coarse song;
a town, where morals were flung to the winds, like a deck of unlucky
playing-cards.

There was a certain moral element; an element composed of hard-riding,
Godfearing men, but they were wofully in the minority. Day or night
the long hitch-racks of the main street were lined with saddle-horses,
standing patiently, often for days at a time, while their masters
lounged in the smoke-festooned gambling houses and pitted their weak
wisdom against games which did not operate for any one’s health.

Wolf Butte lived fast--living today, for tomorrow might never come.

Into this town rode Blaze Carlin and Frenchy Ditteau; rode past the
gambling-halls, where the rattle of poker-chips sang a siren song to
Blaze’s ears. To Frenchy it only meant mingling with other men, a
drink or two, much useless argument and perhaps trouble; but Frenchy
welcomed it all. He liked the drink or two, loved an argument, and
fighting only added zest to life.

They went straight to a livery-stable and turned their horses over to
the stable-man. On the wall of the grain-room was a prominent, crudely
painted sign:

                       LEAVE YOUR GUNS HERE OR TURN
                         THEM OVER TO THE SHERIFF
                              THIS MEANS YOU

Blaze read it aloud and turned to the stable-man.

“Does that sign mean what she says?”

The man laughed and shook his head.

“I reckon not, pardner. Yuh see, we ain’t got no sheriff. Him and his
under-sheriff got run out by the vigilantes.”

“What did they do that for?”

“I dunno.” The man shook his head and turned away. It was evident that
he did not care to discuss the matter.

“Lak’ I’m say biffore,” observed Frenchy. “She’s de good t’ing at de
right time. I’m hongry inside, Blaze. Mebbe we better find de ham and
de egg, eh?”

Blaze agreed readily. Mora’s gang had interrupted their breakfast and
they had not made a stop since leaving Mora’s ranch, which was about
twelve miles from Wolf Butte. They walked down the dusty street to a
restaurant.

Riders came galloping into the street, their horses kicking up clouds of
dust. Freight-wagons creaked in, the mules dusty and tired, the drivers
bitterly profane. Here were no traffic laws. An empty wagon, with a torn
schooner-cover, swerved to the left of a heavy freighter and their front
wheels locked.

The freighter screamed an oath and swung his whip at the other driver,
while the teams lunged wildly. In the swirl of dust, both riders got to
the ground and fought each other like madmen, while a gathering crowd
cheered them.

The veil of alkali dust made the fighters appear as an out-of-focus
picture. Suddenly the freighter went down. The other driver sprang to
his seat, backed his vehicle away from the heavy freighter and drove
away, hatless, coatless but triumphant, while willing hands helped
the freighter back into his wagon. The street cleared and the fight
was forgotten.

At the door of a restaurant Blaze stopped and threw up his head. The
gambling fever was upon him again. Directly across the street was a
huge sign:

                          EUREKA SALOON AND
                           GAMBLING PALACE

A violin screeched an old jig-tune; an out-of-tune piano was jangling
notes, while above it all came the husky voice of a woman, singing
“Suwanee River.” Her voice broke harshly on a high note and a burst of
coarse laughter showed that the audience had been amused.

A bouncer propelled a quarrelsome drunk out of the wide door and the
unfortunate one sprawled into the street from a well-directed kick. All
the saloon doors were double width, wide open so as not to obstruct any
rider who was in too much of a hurry to dismount for his drink.

“She’s a ---- bad town,” declared Frenchy as they sat down at a greasy
table where linen and silverware were unknown.

“Man for breakfast every mornin’, stranger,” smiled a bearded man at
the next table. “Everythin’ goes in Wolf Butte. Railroad’s within
seventy miles of here now and the stakes sure cuts close to the main
street.”

Came a scattered volley of pistol shots from up the street and several
men rode swiftly past the restaurant.

“More punchers in for a bust,” observed the stranger. “They sure does
salute the town since the sheriff hit for the hills.”

“Vigilantes run him out?” asked Blaze.

“Accordin’ to the notice tacked on his door.”

The stranger attacked his meal and Blaze and Frenchy turned back to
their own business of eating. More men drifted in to eat and the place
was filled when Blaze and Frenchy paid for their meal and went across
the street to the Eureka. The games were running full blast. Blaze
waited until a man cashed in his poker-winnings and then slipped into
his place, tossing a piece of gold to the dealer, who shoved the chips
across the table.

Frenchy leaned against the bar, his keen eyes taking in the place.
Painted women, with scarlet lips and painted cheeks, dressed in cheap
finery, mingled with the men, their shrill laughter audible above the
roar of male conversation.

Two fiddlers added to the general confusion by screeching out a
hoe-down. Three bartenders dished out cheap whisky, while rough waiters
hurried hither and yon, carrying orders to the games or to those unable
to navigate from table to bar.

Frenchy was looking toward the door as three men came in. The man in
the lead was inches taller than any man in the room. His neck was so
short that it appeared his head was set flush with his shoulders, his
long arms swinging even below the bottom of his holstered gun.

His face was like a piece of carved mahogany, carved to a perpetual
sneer, and his eyes were black as ink and without depth. A lock of
greasy hair curved down over his forehead from under the back-flung
brim of his sombrero. He wore a beaded vest, heavy with brass
ornaments, and below it flashed the two heavy silver buckles of his
ornamented belt. His chaps were heavily ornamented with silver studs
and carved rosettes, and the spurs above his high heels were heavy
with silver and gold.

He stopped and swept the crowd with his eyes, his glance traveling from
man to man. He only gave Frenchy a passing glance and then turned to the
bar. The two men stepped in beside him. A bartender hurried to take
their order. The big man slopped the liquor on the bar indifferently and
then spat out his drink.

“Rotten!” he snapped and flipped the uncorked bottle off the bar
under his feet where it gurgled its contents along the rough floor.
“Gimme good whisky, ---- you!” he roared at the bartender. “None of
that pizen!”

The bartender placed another bottle on the bar, along with fresh
glasses.

“That’s the best in town, Mora,” said the bartender.

“Don’t tell me what’s the best!” growled Mora. “I’ll do the talkin’.”

Frenchy studied the big man. So this was Black Mora. Frenchy looked at
the huge, hairy wrists, the big, powerful hands; the shoulders of an
ape. Mora’s forehead was broad and intelligent, but the back of his
huge head was almost flat. His hips were narrow and his feet small.

Frenchy noted that Mora’s gun had a beautifully carved handle. In
Frenchy’s mind there was not the slightest doubt but that Black Mora
was deadly efficient. The two men with him were ordinary cow-puncher
types, well trained to follow their master.

Mora turned and saw Frenchy looking at him. There was nothing offensive
in Frenchy’s attitude; rather he was admiring this huge piece of
fighting machinery. Mora placed his glass on the bar and turned toward
Frenchy.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he growled, eyes half-closed.

Frenchy feigned not to have heard the question and turned his head
slowly toward the poker-table. Blaze Carlin was looking at Mora. He
and Frenchy exchanged glances and Frenchy turned back to Mora.

“Didja hear what I said?” growled Mora.

Frenchy smiled and shook his head. “De little question she’s get lost in
all dis talk. I’m ver’ sorry.”

“Frog-eater!” rumbled Mora, stepping closer and glowering at Frenchy.

Blaze moved his chair back from the table slowly, watching Mora. As
Blaze’s right hand drew back from his chips he touched a heavy glass
beer mug. His fingers twined into the handle and he leaned forward
in his chair. Frenchy had not moved. Mora’s throat rumbled a curse
and his right hand shot out to grasp Frenchy by the throat, but
Blaze shot to his feet and flung the beer mug with such unerring aim
that it caught Black Mora over his right ear, when the latter’s hand
was brushing Frenchy’s chin.

Mora dropped like a log. For a moment nobody spoke nor made a move.
Frenchy leaned against the bar, the butt of his pistol braced against
his right hip, covering Mora’s two men.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he chuckled. “De beer mug save Mora’s life. I’m to kill
him when he touch me, de beeg pig!”

Mora stirred and then sat up, staring vacantly. His eyes fastened on
Frenchy and the muzzle of the unwavering pistol. He put his hand to
his head and drew it away stained with blood. His eyes traveled around
the saloon, as if seeking the man who had hit him. He got to his feet
and leaned against the bar, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. Frenchy
did not move a muscle.

The room had gone suddenly still. Then a woman laughed harshly and Black
Mora’s muscles seemed to jerk from the insult. It was as if some one had
laughed when a king fell.

Blaze stepped away from the poker-table and walked half-way to Mora.
The two men looked at each other for several moments and then Blaze
spoke evenly:

“I throwed that glass. Yuh don’t know it, but I saved your life. ’Pears
to me that you ain’t been weaned long, or yuh wouldn’t reach for an
armed man.”

Again came the harsh, cackling laugh from the whisky-raw female throat.
Mora seemed to quiver with suppressed anger. His tongue passed along his
thick, lower lip. Then he spoke----

“You know who I am?”

Blaze smiled and shook his head.

“I am Black Mora.”

It was as if he had said--“I am the king.”

“Never heard of yuh,” replied Blaze, “but you sure have a hard head,
pardner. How’s all your folks down on the farm?”

Frenchy chuckled aloud.

“Black Mora, eh? I’m mak’ you acquaint wit’ Blaze Carlin, Black Mora.”

Mora was like a teased tiger, which knew that steel bars kept him from
wreaking vengeance on his tormentors. In this case the bars were Frenchy
and his big pistol, which had never wavered; the pointed hammer back at
full-cock, like the head of a snake about to strike. Mora’s face settled
back to its perpetual sneer and he turned on his heel and walked out,
followed by his two men. As he went out of the door he was followed by
the woman’s derisive laugh.

Frenchy flipped his pistol back into its holster. Blaze turned back to
the table, where men were staring at him. The man in the lookout chair
spoke:

“Mister, you’ve kinda put yourself in bad. That’s Black Mora
and--and----”

“He said that’s who he was,” smiled Blaze. “Is he supposed to be so
bad?”

The men around the table shifted uneasily. It was rather a personal
question as no man seemed to know who was in Mora’s confidence. Blaze
glanced around the circle and then laughed.

“Don’t nobody tell me he’s a bad-man, ’cause I won’t believe it. He’s a
big, black bully. Some kid will chase him off the range some day, with a
tin can full of rocks hangin’ to his shirt-tail.”

The dealer picked up the cards, glanced at the door uneasily and went on
dealing. Frenchy still leaned against the bar, smiling around the room.
The place grew animated again, but hilarity was forced. The king had
been humiliated, disgraced and none knew when the king might try to wipe
out the stain--nor how.

There was a man at the poker-table who did not seem of the same caliber
as the rest of the crowd. He was past middle age, slow of movements,
soft of voice. He played methodically, unemotional, as if thinking
deeply. His hair and mustache were nearly white and his eyes seemed to
hold nothing but kindness to all men.

Blaze looked up to see the blue eyes fastened upon him inquiringly. It
was as if the man were asking a question. Blaze smiled at him, and for
some reason half-nodded as if answering the unspoken question.

After a few more hands the blue-eyed man cashed in his chips and got up
from the game. Another was waiting for his chair. He straightened his
collar and sauntered toward the door. Blaze felt that his interest in
the game was waning; so he also cashed in and let another take his
place. The blue-eyed man was standing at the door, looking outside, and
Blaze went straight to him, walking slowly. He did not speak directly
to the man, but kept his face toward the door as he said--

“I kinda reckon you wants to talk to me, pardner?”

The other shifted his feet and continued to stare at the door.

“Not here. At the west end of town, a quarter of a mile away, is a
house, standing alone. Can you be there an hour after dark--you and
your pardner?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look out for Mora.”

“I ain’t a bit sleepy, pardner.”

The man yawned and walked out of the door. Blaze turned slowly and
walked up to Frenchy.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

“I’m mak’ t’ink we better off wit’out drink, Blaze.” Frenchy spoke
softly. “Whisky ver’ good when everybody she’s happy, but nobody she
act happy over de Mora business. Mebbe de sonn of a gonn she’s need
more convince, eh?”

“I reckon you’re right, Frenchy. Come on.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They sauntered out of the door into the street, and once more the Eureka
seemed to grow hilarious; as if a weight had been removed from its mind.
Blaze told Frenchy of his conversation with the man.

“He no say w’at he want? Ba gosh! Mebbe she’s trap from Black Mora.”

Blaze shook his head.

“No, I reckon not, Frenchy. I’ll take that chance.”

“Sure ’nough. I’m bet Black Mora mak’ t’ink we die in de fire. He not
know us. His two men see us close, but one is got busted arm and de oder
she’s no set on saddle for week. I’m like dis ---- town, Blaze. Ba gosh,
nobody’s she get rusty from live her, you bet me my life.”

Several cowboys whirled their horses away from a hitch-rack, and one
of them came bucking down the center of the street, its rider swinging
sidewise in the saddle, his right spur hooked into the cinch, while he
fanned the bronco’s ears with his sombrero.

Another forced his horse to enter the saloon, spurring the frightened
beast into a jerky buck as it went inside and a few moments later
bucked out again with a big bottle held aloft in his hand. His horse
passed Blaze and Frenchy in a whirl of dust as he raced to catch the
others.

Across the street was a sign: SHERIFF’S OFFICE. A notice was pinned to
the door. Blaze and Frenchy crossed the street and read the notice.

                     CLOSED BY ORDER OF VIGILANT

Blaze studied the crudely lettered sign.

“The same man wrote both signs--this one and the one we found on that
dead man, Frenchy. The letters are made just the same way.”

“What dis wan say?” asked Frenchy.

Blaze read it aloud.

“Ba gosh!” exclaimed Frenchy. “I’m mak’ t’ink de lawyer starve to death
in dis countree. De hangman she’s good for do de hang, but she’s ----
poor judge, I’m t’ink.”

“Crooked sheriff, I reckon,” observed Blaze. “The vigilantes likely
found him out and made him hard to catch.”

They strolled from saloon to saloon, but there was no sign of Black Mora
nor his two men. Frenchy watched Blaze walk past game after game without
interest, and wondered what had come over his partner. Somehow the games
of chance did not attract Blaze now.

No one paid any attention to them, which proved that news of Black
Mora’s humiliation had not reached their ears. Every one seemed intent
on his own pleasures. Groups of cow-punchers drifted from saloon to
saloon, singing, playing like a crowd of overgrown children; their
spurs jingling over the rough floors.

Already the huge, shaded oil-lamps had been lighted over the
gambling-tables, and their smoky odors mingled with the scent of
alcohol and tobacco fumes. Dealers finished their shifts and made
way for fresh, clear-eyed men, in shirt sleeves and eyeshades. Blaze
and Frenchy sat tilted back against the wall, watching the action of
the place, but taking no part in it. Finally, Blaze tilted forward
and got to his feet. It was time to go.

He spoke to Frenchy and they threaded their way through the crowd and
into the street. They saddled their own horses, paid the small fee and
rode away. A pale moon lighted the dusty road while a film of dust
cloud seemed to hang above the road, marking the swift passing of some
one a short time before.

The house was easy to find, standing alone, bulking black in the dim
moonlight. Not a window was lighted; not a horse nor a vehicle was in
evidence.

“Must be the right place,” observed Blaze, swinging sidewise in his
saddle.

The door opened and the blue-eyed man’s voice spoke--

“Would you mind leaving your horses behind the house where no one could
see them from the road?”

“Sure thing,” replied Blaze, and they rode to the rear.

The door was opened for them and they stepped into a dark room. The door
was closed behind them. A match flared up and they watched a man light a
small oil-lamp. As the glow lighted up the room they glanced around.
Sitting in a semi-circle were at least a dozen men. Blaze glanced at the
window and saw that it was covered with several thicknesses of blankets.
The lamp had likely been extinguished before opening the door.

The blue-eyed man stepped beside Blaze and spoke to the men.

“Gentlemen, these are the two men. One of them knocked Black Mora down
in the Eureka this afternoon. His pardner would have killed Mora in
another moment. They are strangers in Wolf Butte.”

A tall, rangy man got to his feet and held out his hand to Blaze.

“Pardner, I’d admire to shake your hand.”

Blaze smiled and shook hands with him. Not to be outdone, Frenchy
stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Ba gosh, you shake hands wit’ good man, when you shake wit’ Blaze
Carlin and Frenchy Ditteau.”

That seemed to break the tension.

“You are wondering why I asked you to come here, aren’t you?” asked the
blue-eyed man.

“Feller kinda like to know,” admitted Blaze.

“You do the talkin’, will yuh, judge?” asked one of the men. “You _sabe_
the kinda stuff to say.”

The blue-eyed man nodded and turned to Blaze.

“I am Judge Whalen. These men--” indicating the semicircle of
men--“these men and myself compose the vigilance committee.”

“Ba gosh, you be ashamed!” blurted Frenchy. “You hang old crippled man.”

Judge Whalen glanced at the men and back at Frenchy.

“What was that, Ditteau?”

“We buried a victim of the vigilantes yesterday,” replied Blaze. “It was
an old man.”

“Another one,” said the judge sadly. “Where was this done, Carlin?”

Blaze tried to describe the place, but was interrupted by one of the
men, who got to his feet.

“I know the place, judge, but I don’t know the man. It’s west of Mora’s
ranch. This man has only been there a short time. I talked with him, but
he had little to say. He acted kinda queer.”

“Their idea seems to be to kill, regardless of who their victim may be,”
observed the judge, but turned quickly to Blaze. “I forgot that you did
not know. We are the original vigilance committee, but we have not been
active for over two months.

“Law and order seemed to have been established by us, after all other
means had failed. Our sheriff was unable to handle the situation; so
we gave him our assistance and then disbanded.

“Since then another organization has appeared, operating under our name;
an organization which has undone all our good work, put us to shame, and
are now terrorizing the country. Murder after murder has been done in
the name of the vigilantes. Our sheriff has disappeared, perhaps killed,
and his office door bears a warning from the vigilantes.

“No man knows where they will strike next. The cripple you found
hanging to the tree is only one of the many they have murdered. No
doubt you are aware that the law and order crowd are greatly in the
minority. We were a power for a while, but that power is gone, it
seems. Our investigations are useless as no man seems to want to tell
what he knows for fear of vengeance.

“The bank has closed its door after a raid by the same gang, in which
the cashier, one of our organization, was killed. Stores have been
looted. Things have come to such a state that a decent woman does not
dare be seen on the street of Wolf Butte. You have seen the reckless
riding, shooting, profanity, the flaunting of morals. Each day it
grows worse.”

“She sure is a stem-winder, judge,” admitted Blaze. “What do yuh want us
to do?”

“You knocked Black Mora down today. It is the first time that any
man has raised his hand against Mora and lived. He is the swiftest,
most deadly pistol-shot in the country; a man without a shred of
conscience. The men who work for him are the pick of the outlaws.
There is no question but what he has spies everywhere. Five of our
organization have been killed.

“You will ask why we do not remove Black Mora? He has a larger
organization than we have. He knows our every move. Practically every
man in our crowd is married. I am not ashamed to admit to you that we
are afraid. Honest men can not be on their guard every moment. No man
will accept the sheriff’s office. It is suicide. We want a man who is
unafraid and who is willing to put his soul, his life into it.”

Judge Whalen’s voice was softly pitched; impassioned as if pleading
before a jury of twelve instead of telling plain facts to two men.
The shadows of the cattlemen bulked grotesquely on the wall, as they
humped forward, listening intently to the one man among them who
could tell calmly of their wrongs.

Blaze got to his feet and adjusted his belt. The flickering light
accentuated the bronze high-lights of his Indian-like features and
seemed to intensify the white strip of hair.

“Can yuh make a sheriff without an election?” he asked.

“By appointment,” nodded the judge. “We have with us the commissioners
of this county, who may, in the event of no incumbent, appoint a sheriff
to serve the remainder of the unexpired term.”

“A sheriff wouldn’t have a chance in the world,” objected a grizzled
cowman. “That’s why nobody wants the job.”

“I wish you’d appoint Frenchy Ditteau for sheriff,” said Blaze.
“Frenchy’d make a danged good sheriff.”

“Ba gosh, I’m vote for Blaze Carlin,” declared Frenchy. “I’m----”

“Why not you?” asked the judge.

Blaze shook his head.

“Judge, you need brains in that office. Frenchy has more _sabe_ than I
have. If you can make him sheriff, I’ll be his deputy.”

“It wouldn’t be quite legal,” stated the judge. “Neither of you are
voters here.”

“Just came into the State,” admitted Blaze.

Another of the group got to his feet.

“Judge, I says to ---- with legality! We’re considerin’ right and
wrong--not law. I dunno how these two men aims to be of a ---- bit of
use to us as a sheriff and deputy, but I’m willin’ to help appoint
’em.”

“Have you any ideas of what you are confronting?” asked the judge.

Blaze laughed.

“I’ve been a gambler most of my life, judge. I ain’t never cared much
for law and order until I helped cut down an old man who had been hung.
He was a cripple in one knee and his old hands was twisted from disease.
He couldn’t neither run nor shoot. I don’t reckon I’d ever feel good if
I didn’t do somethin’ to pay back the men who done that.”

“De devil do dat job,” added Frenchy, “I’m not ’fraid from any men w’at
hang ol’ men. Bimeby I’m be ol’ man, I’m t’ink, an’ I’m no lak’ to stand
on wind and look up de rope, ba gosh!”

“Hirin’ Frenchy for sheriff likely won’t be legal,” stated Blaze, “but
neither is hangin’ legal, when yuh do it promiscuous-like. It ain’t
because we want to be sheriff, gents. Me and Frenchy are just two
ordinary men and we ain’t able to do no more than any two ordinary
men, but bein’ sheriff and deputy kinda gives us somethin’ to work on.
We only asks one favor of yuh, and that is to let us handle it in our
own way. Yuh can never do anythin’ by arguin’ with ’em, gents. If we
takes this job there won’t be no questions asked nor answered.”

The judge turned to the group.

“Men, I will write out the appointment at once, if you all agree. I
think it will be a good night’s work for the country.”

“She be ---- bad luck for some-bodee,” grinned Frenchy enthusiastically.
“Frenchy Ditteau, sheriff, eh? I’m get scare of myself, Blaze. Ho, ho,
ho! Wolf Butte get ’fraid for scare, when she’s see de sheriff. Bimeby
I’m hire de cow-punch to ride herd on de outlaw, biccause I’m t’ink de
jail too small. Ho, ho, ho!”

The men grouped around the table, while Judge Whalen penciled the
appointment and had it signed. He handed it to Frenchy.

“This is your authority, Mr. Ditteau.”

“Meester Ditteau.” Frenchy repeated the title as he grinned down at the
document, which he could not read, and then put it in his pocket.

“Ba gosh, Frenchy Ditteau got regular job now. I’m t’ink de wolf and
grizzly move in close, biccause dere be plenty feed bimeby. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Please do not underrate Black Mora,” said the judge seriously. “Bully
he may be, but I do not think he is a coward. He has a heart as black
as his face and he wields a dangerous power. I know you do not fear
him, but I ask you to respect his ability.”

“Anybody else need watchin’?” asked Blaze.

“Everybody.” The judge’s gesture even encompassed present company. “Wolf
Butte has become the hangout of every outlaw from Wyoming to Canada.
This railroad will bring in the scum of the earth and Wolf Butte will be
their headquarters. Unless conditions change, this town will be a red
hell and we’ll pay for the pitch.”

“Ba gosh, I’m lak’ dis town,” grinned Frenchy. “I’m t’ink I’m stay here
and grow up wit’ her.”

Blaze and Frenchy shook hands with the men, the lamp was extinguished
and they all filed outside. The moon was hidden by clouds.

“We want to wish you the best of luck,” said the judge softly.

“I--I reckon we’ll need considerable,” smiled Blaze. “It looks kinda
stormy.”

“Our horses are over in the coulée,” explained one of the men, and
without further conversation they filed away in the dark, while
Frenchy and Blaze rode back to the blazing lights of Wolf Butte,
where they stabled their horses and went straight to the sheriff’s
office. The door was unlocked. Inside they found two small cots and
several blankets.

Blaze barred the door and they went to bed. The street echoed with
galloping hoofs, the shouts of drunken men and women. From the
dance-halls came the raucous notes of an orchestra as Wolf Butte
danced. Blaze stared up at the dark ceiling of the office and wondered
why he did not want to join the revelry; wondered why the green cloth
had no attraction for him now.

From Frenchy’s cot came a stentorian snore. The new sheriff was doing
no unnecessary worrying over the morrow. Blaze grinned and stretched
his full length. Men had shaken his hand and expressed confidence in
him--honest men. He was no longer Blaze Carlin, gambler; he was Blaze
Carlin, the right arm of the law. He flexed his supple fingers and
wondered how long the arm of the law would last. At least, it would
start reaching.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Wolf Butte was a different place in the light of the morning sun. Few
men were on the street. Swampers sluiced out the saloons and
gambling-houses, sweeping out stacks of torn and stained playing-cards;
cleaning up for the day and night to come. Freighters’ wagons, with
red-eyed, cursing drivers, creaked away from the stores, headed back to
the source of supplies.

Men were packing a bunch of horses in front of a store. A hatless,
disheveled person staggered out of a saloon and started across the
street. He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if amazed that it
should be morning. Perhaps he was ashamed to be seen in the full
light of day for he staggered back from whence he came. There was no
breeze and the passing of hoof and wheel left a film of alkali dust
in the air; a film through which the heat waves began to dance a
devil’s jig.

Wolf Butte awoke slowly--painfully. It was useless to try to sleep in
that heat.

Men began to drift from the overcrowded hotels to the saloons. Men
rolled out of their blankets at the feed corrals. The loft of the
livery-stable furnished lodging for those unable to secure a bed. The
bare ground furnished lodging for those who were unable to secure
rooms, or were physically unable to reach loft, hotel or feed corral.

Dry of throat, bloodshot of eye and silent of voice, they headed for the
oases of the town where, after a few crooks of the elbow, they would
revive in spirit. Breakfast might or might not be forgotten. It was all
according to the degree of thirst and the amount of liquid refreshments
taken aboard before the pangs of hunger had a chance to manifest itself.
Blaze and Frenchy were the first ones at breakfast.

A frowsy waiter, with one side of his face purpled from temple to
nostril and a smear of blood on his collar, took their order. He mumbled
something about a big time last night, but Blaze and Frenchy gave him no
heed. Two men came in and sat down near them. One of them was explaining
that his partner had been too drunk to see.

“I tell yuh that Chuck Sales would ’a’ nailed Mex Free jist like that.”
The speaker snapped his fingers. “Jist like that, but he seen that Mex
had a busted arm. Chuck and Mex had a argument to settle. Seems that Mex
comes in to have Doc Brenton fix up his arm, but doc’s full of morphine
and ain’t worth a ---- to fix nothin’.”

“Mex would git Sales if he wasn’t hurt,” argued the other. “I’d like
to know who got Mex. Must ’a’ been a accident, ’cause Mex is fast as
a rattlesnake. He ain’t Mora’s right-hand man for nothin’. Somebody
told Chuck that Mora’s ranch-house burned down, and of course Chuck
had to make a fool remark about the vigilantes. I sure looked for
some of Mora’s gang to git Chuck. Chuck’s always talkin’ funny.”

“What’s Chuck got against Mora?” asked the other.

“Jealous, I reckon. Chuck Sales don’t want nobody he can’t boss and Mora
won’t have nobody he can’t boss; so it--say, him and Mora’d make a good
fight.”

“Chuck would whip him.” The man spoke with conviction, but the other
laughed scornfully.

“Whip him? Mora’s big enough to tie Chuck in a hard knot. If Mora ever
got his hands on Chuck he’d jist squash him complete.”

“Big enough,” agreed the other, “but size ain’t everythin’, Jud. Jist
between me and you, I think Mora’s shy on guts.”

The one called Jud laughed.

“Don’tcha think it, Ben. Mora’s got the guts of a grizzly, so he has.”

“In size,” grinned Jud. “Only in size. The back of his head’s as flat as
that there wall. I ain’t never seen a flat-head yet what ain’t lacked
that somethin’ which makes men fight to the last ditch.”

“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Ben. “Yuh don’t need to yell it.”

The two men attacked their meal. More men drifted in, growling over
their meals like hungry animals. Many of them bore marks of drunken
conflict. Then came a tall man, stumbling in, his arm tied in a dirty
sling. He pushed a man aside and sat down heavily.

Blaze and Frenchy glanced at each other and then at this newcomer. It
was Mex Free, the man whom Blaze had shot in the arm near Mora’s
ranch. He glowered around the room, his left hand rattling his knife
on the table-edge nervously. Suddenly he looked straight at Blaze and
Frenchy.

His face seemed to set in deep lines, his eyes almost disappeared under
this frowning brows. He licked his lips and his hand, still holding the
knife, brushed across his brow, as he tried to fathom the mystery. Blaze
nudged Frenchy with his knee and whispered without moving his lips----

“He thinks we were burned in that fire.”

Free turned away, staring around the room, but his glance strayed back
to Blaze and Frenchy and without a backward glance he got to his feet
and stumbled out through the door. No one paid any attention to his
going except Blaze and Frenchy.

“I’m mak’ t’ink you’re right,” grinned Frenchy. “She’s t’ink she sees
ghos’, ba gosh!”

They left the restaurant and went back to the office. Blaze tore the
sign off the door and made another, which read--

OPEN FOR BUSINESS, and signed it FRENCHY DITTEAU, SHERIFF.

A man stopped and watched Blaze tack the sign on the door. Being unable
to read and not being ashamed to acknowledge it he asked Blaze to read
it aloud to him. The man made no comment, but turned and went across
the street into a saloon. A few minutes later a curious crowd came over
to prove the rumor that Wolf Butte had a new sheriff. It seemed to
amuse them, but they withheld their laughter until they went back to
the saloon where they became hilarious. Blaze and Frenchy listened to
their mirth, but failed to be infected with the humor of the situation.

Blaze suggested that they replenish their supply of ammunition, and they
went up to the general store, where the storekeeper welcomed them with a
smile.

“I met yuh last night,” he informed them in a whisper. “Name’s McQuirk,
Jim McQuirk.”

“You was with the judge?” asked Blaze and McQuirk nodded.

He furnished them with the required ammunition and refused to accept
pay.

“It’s the least I can do,” he stated.

From under the counter he produced a Winchester repeating rifle, 44-40,
which he handed to Blaze, along with several boxes of ammunition.

“Take this and try it out. I dunno how she shoots. It was sent to me
from Helena and I ain’t never shot it. She’s faster than the Sharp’s.”

Blaze grinned.

“I _sabe_ that gun, pardner. Feller down on the north fork of the
Cheyenne had one and I used it on antelope. I’m sure obliged to yuh.”

“You’re welcome, Carlin.”

Other men came in, but paid no attention to Blaze and Frenchy, who
went out and back to their office. A crowd was congregated in front
of the Square Deal saloon, and several of them laughed aloud as they
watched Blaze and Frenchy go down the street.

“What’s our first move?” asked Blaze, after they reached the office.

Frenchy examined the new gun, testing the action, peering through the
sights. Finally he laid it down and began filling the empty loops on
his belt.

“Blaze, de notice in de livery-stable she’s to be continue.”

“Make ’em give up their guns?” wondered Blaze.

“Sure t’ing.”

“Means that we’ve got to make good a-whoopin’.”

“Jus’ like de sign say,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m be de sheriff or not. I’m
say dat no man she’s can pack de gun in town. Whisky, card, female no
mix good wit’ de gun. I’m no can stop de whisky, card, female, but I’m
stop de gun, ba gosh! I’m go by de stable. You mak’ Frenchy Ditteau on
de sign, eh? I’m tak’ de new gun, Blaze. De Sharp’s is good gun, but
I’m need more fas’ shoot, mebbe.”

They went back to the stable and Blaze signed the new sheriff’s name to
the order.

“Was this order ever enforced?” asked Blaze.

“No, it sure wasn’t.” The stable-man seemed greatly amused at the
question. “Yuh can’t do a thing like that, pardner. Wolf Butte won’t
stand for nothin’ like that and yuh can cinch your hull to that
statement.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Three men rode into the wide doors of the stable and got off their
horses. They were a hard-looking trio, grimy from a long ride. They
turned their horses in stalls and started for the door, when Frenchy
called to them.

“Tak’ look,” said Frenchy pointing at the sign.

They stopped and glanced at the sign. One of them laughed and swung on
his heel.

“Come on, boys; that don’t mean nothin’.”

“She’s mean w’at she say!” snapped Frenchy. “I’m de sheriff and you
leave your gun wit’ me.”

The man looked at Frenchy, as if astonished. He looked at the sign again
and laughed sneeringly.

“You the sheriff?”

“You leave de gun wit’ me.” Frenchy’s voice was softly pitched, as if
asking a favor. His left hand swung out, as if to receive the gun, his
fingers working nervously. It was as if he was crumbling something in
the palm of his hand.

“Leave--my--gun? With--you?” The man’s words were widely spaced as he
stared at Frenchy’s left hand.

Astonishment seemed to grip him, but indignation flashed across his
eyes and his hand streaked for his gun. He was a fraction of a second
too late. Frenchy fired from his hip and at the crack of the gun Blaze
covered the other two.

The man’s hand relaxed from his gun which thudded to the soggy floor.
Over his face came an astonished expression. He knitted his brows as if
deep in thought and then sank to his knees, after which he slid softly
on his face.

“De gun stay wit’ me,” declared Frenchy without emotion, reaching down
and picking it up from the floor.

He turned to the astonished men and removed the guns from their
holsters. Then he pointed down at the man on the floor.

“You pack de man down to de sheriff office. If you t’ink de doctor do
heem any good--you call heem. I’m stay here to collect de gun.”

Without a word the two men picked up their companion and carried him out
of the stable followed by Blaze who directed them. Men saw them going
down the street and followed to the office, where they clustered around
the door. No questions were asked and no information given.

A man came up to Blaze and touched him on the arm. He was collarless
and unshaven, wearing a hat which was minus the crown, but there was
a certain refinement about his face that hinted of better things.

“Have them take him to my place,” said the man hoarsely. “They know
where. I--I am Doc Brenton.”

Blaze spoke to the men and they turned and followed the doctor down the
street.

“I wonder what in ---- happened to Jim Clell?” said one of the crowd.

Blaze turned and looked at the speaker.

“He refused to obey orders,” said Blaze.

A man laughed.

“Somebody givin’ orders to Jim Clell?”

“The sheriff,” said Blaze.

“It was an even break,” stated the voice of the stable-man who had
followed them. “Jim reached for his gun first. I never seen nothin’
like it. Jim was hit before he could grip his gun. I’ve seen guns come
out fast, gents; but nothin’ like this new sheriff and his deputy
drawed ’em. They could yell ‘draw,’ spit on their hands and still beat
Jim Clell.”

The stable-man’s exaggeration was accepted for what it was worth, but
Wolf Butte knew that Jim Clell was as good as their best with a gun.

“I don’t _sabe_ this sheriff proposition,” said one of the men.

“My pardner was appointed last night,” explained Blaze. “Wolf Butte is
through runnin’ hog-wild. Yuh can pass the word that law and order is
comin’ back to this country and she’s comin’ so fast that some of these
snake-hunters had better hunt a hole or get run over.”

“Vigilantes failed, did they?” grinned a man.

Blaze ignored the question and went inside. The crowd split up,
muttering their individual opinions, which were not at all favorable
to such proceedings. Frenchy had started the ball to rolling in the
right way. Luckily he had downed one of the well-known outlaws,
instead of one of the rank and file. This might make others hesitate
to cross him.

Blaze knew that Wolf Butte was shocked. Of course there was a danger
of having the whole lawless element against them, but, again there was
a chance the different factions might split in their opinions. There
were at least three different gangs, who were openly hostile to each
other--Mora’s, Sales’ and McKeever’s.

Black Mora had the greatest following, but there was something about
Chuck Sales’ crowd which savored of cold efficiency. There was bad blood
between Sales and Mora, which is the usual thing between outlaw leaders,
both of whom desired supremacy. McKeever had a small following, but was
known personally as a hard man to handle. He seemed content to let Sales
and Mora fight it out.

Respect for the law is born in all men. There is a psychological
something that gives a peace officer a slight edge over the criminal.
Perhaps it is psychology of knowing that right will win. The outlaw,
regardless of his ability, hides from the law, knowing that sooner or
later he will pay the penalty, for down in his heart he fears the law
and when fear grips him he is no match for the man who is backed by
the right.

Blaze knew this. He knew nothing of psychology, but he knew that he
owned this slight edge over the outlaw. The shooting of Jim Clell had
affected him no more than if Frenchy had shot at a target. He did not
know Jim Clell. He wondered what would have happened had he and
Frenchy ridden into Wolf Butte and some one had demanded their guns.
Perhaps they would have done as Jim Clell did.

“She’s all in the point of view,” said Blaze aloud.

“Which is whatever,” admitted a voice at the door.

Blaze swung around. The man was hardly past thirty, broad of shoulders
and deep of chest. His hair and mustache were bleached to a light-straw
color and his eyes were pale blue. His face was burned to a brick-red
and his nose had been broken at some distant time, which left the high
bridge of the organ in such a position that it appeared to be falling
over into one of the eye-sockets. One of his cheeks was filled with
tobacco, the cheek on the same side as the falling nose, which gave him
a peculiar lopsided expression.

“Howdy,” nodded Blaze. “I forgot I spoke out loud.”

The man came inside and looked around.

“You the sheriff?”

“No, I’m the under-sheriff,” said Blaze. “Name’s Blaze Carlin.”

The man stuck out his hand.

“I’m Chuck Sales. I kinda want to git this sheriff business straight,
Carlin.”

Blaze shook hands with him.

“I heard two men talking about you this morning, Sales. You don’t like
Black Mora, it seems.”

Sales stared at Blaze.

“Do you like him?”

“I can live without him,” smiled Blaze.

“I hear yuh can,” nodded Sales. “Dad Henderson tells me that yuh hit
Mora in the ear with a beer glass and knocked him down. My ----, I
wish I could ’a’ seen that. Seems like I never happen to be around
when anythin’ pleasant is bein’ done.”

Sales seemed greatly disappointed. He walked back to the door and spat
out into the street.

“Somebody told me that yuh nailed Jim Clell today. What’s the idea?”

There was nothing offensive about Sales’ question; only mild interest.

“Wolf Butte needs law and order,” said Blaze, “and we’re goin’ to supply
it, Sales.”

Sales nodded and scratched his crooked nose.

“I dunno but you’re right. Wolf Butte is kinda ornery. I don’t like it
m’self, Carlin. It brings so ---- many crooks here that a honest outlaw
don’t have no chance to make a livin’.”

Blaze laughed, but Sales did not lose his serious expression.

“It’s a fact,” insisted Sales. “I don’t like this idea of ----in’ around
in the town. I’ve lost two ---- good men lately. It’s got so’s I’ve got
to watch behind and in front or git leaded.

“Yessir, it’s got so a feller has to gunfight somebody all the time to
have anybody respect him. I’m a horse-thief, Carlin. This ---- town is
spoilin’ my boys, don’tcha know it? I can’t git ’em sober long enough
to even steal a jackass.”

Blaze laughed joyously. Here was something different in outlaws--an
outlaw who was unafraid to acknowledge his profession to the law; an
outlaw with a well-developed idea of humor. Sales, in spite of his
crooked face, had a strong personality and Blaze wanted to know him
better.

“You sure comes to a strange place to make your complaints,” grinned
Blaze.

“No use goin’ to a saloon or grocery store, is there?”

“No-o-o,” drawled Blaze, “but yuh see we’ve kinda made up our minds to
chase every outlaw out of the country.”

“Zasso?” Sales shifted his tobacco and squinted at Blaze. “Well, I’m
bettin’ that you’ll make one ---- of a stagger at it, Carlin. You look
to me like the kind of a whipoorwill what will do somethin’ except
talk.

“I reckon you classes me with the rest of ’em, which is right and
proper, but I ain’t goin’ to run ’til I has to. I’m willin’ to tell
yuh that neither me nor none of my men will ever shoot yuh in the
back. Mebbe we’ll give yuh a run, face to face--mebbe not. I know
the order you’ve put out, but I’m askin’ yuh to let me keep my gun,
’cause yuh might need it.”

Blaze smiled into Sales’ crooked face and nodded.

“I reckon you can hang on to your gun--for a while.”

“Much obliged,” nodded Sales seriously and walked out.

Blaze did not understand what Sales had meant, when he said that Blaze
would, or might, have need of his--Sales’--gun. Blaze had no desire to
take Sales’ gun, in spite of the fact that Sales was notorious. Sales
did not look, act nor talk like a fighter; yet the man in the restaurant
had rated him above Black Mora.

Blaze leaned against the doorway, watching the street. Wolf Butte was
beginning to warm up to the afternoon round of pleasure. A fist-fight
was in progress farther up the street and the closely packed audience
were cheering and jostling for a closer view. The creaking of a wagon
caused Blaze to turn his head.

Coming up the street was a mismated team of mules, hitched to a wagon,
on the seat of which sat a woman and a little girl. The woman’s face was
hidden by a sunbonnet, but Blaze could see that the girl was a pretty,
tangle-haired thing, frail as a flower. The woman drove the team to the
front of a store, where she tied the mules and went into the store.

As she started into the door, two men came out. They looked closely
at her, and one of them went back and peered inside. He spoke to his
companion and they both laughed as they went back inside. Blaze
wondered why they had watched her. He knew that she had not spoken
to either of them as she passed.

Blaze shut the office door and walked to the store. The woman was
leaning on a counter, talking to the proprietor. The two men were
standing near her, looking down at the child, which was clinging to
her skirts. Blaze heard enough to know that the woman was crying.
The two men looked closely at Blaze, but he gave them only a glance.
The proprietor glanced past her, his eyes filled with pity. Then he
put his hand on her shoulder and said softly:

“Mrs. Wheeler, go over to my house, will yuh? My old woman will be
mighty glad to see yuh and you’re welcome to stay as long as yuh
like--you and the little girl.”

The woman made some reply and turned around. She did not look at Blaze,
but he could see that she was both young and pretty; but her face was
gray from suffering.

“Just tie the team to the gate,” called the storekeeper. “I’ll see that
they are taken care of.”

The woman nodded and went on. The two men lounged out behind her and
stood in front of the building until she drove away. The storekeeper
shook his head wearily and turned to Blaze.

“Carlin, my name’s Delaney. I was out there last night with the judge.”

Blaze held out his hand.

“Glad to meet yuh. What’s the matter with the woman--if it’s any of my
business?”

“God knows it is, Carlin. That’s Mrs. Wheeler--Jack Wheeler’s wife.
Lives down on Cactus Creek, where they was gettin’ a good start. Honest
man was Jack Wheeler and he was one of our organization. Quiet, sober,
minded his own business. He--wait a minute.”

Delaney turned away to sell a man some tobacco, but came back to Blaze
when the man had gone.

“Last night or this morning the vigilantes took Wheeler out of his home,
Carlin. There ain’t a tree within three miles of there. Know what they
done? They tied his grindstone around his neck, like you’d rope a stone
to a pup’s neck, and drownded him in a deep pool.

“One man was guardin’ Mrs. Wheeler and the kid, but he got interested
in the murder and she and the kid got away. They hid in some weeds and
heard the guard get cussed for lettin’ ’em get away. The gang hunted
until daylight, but gave it up and went away. As soon as she was able
she hitched the mules and drove here.”

“Reckon they wanted her?” queried Blaze.

Delaney nodded slowly.

“I reckon so, Carlin. Women--her kind ain’t plentiful.”

“Drowned like a pup,” muttered Blaze slowly. “Delaney, I don’t reckon
that ---- is fit for the man who would do a thing like that. Don’tcha
think the devil’s got a little honor left? Where does the soul of a
man like that go to, anyway?”

Delaney shook his head.

“I dunno. Mebbe they’ll come back to Wolf Butte. It’s beginnin’ to----”

Came the dull snap of a pistol shot. Blaze rushed to the door with
Delaney right behind him. A scattered bunch of horsemen threw up a
dust-cloud in the middle of the street, which prevented Blaze from
seeing just what was going on beyond them.

Out of the dust-cloud came a man, running, looking back and swinging a
pistol in his hand. Suddenly the running man jerked sidewise, stumbled
and fell sprawling, while from beyond him came the crack of a rifle.

The horsemen drew aside. Down the street came Frenchy, running
carefully, the Winchester held in both hands. Straight to the fallen
man he went. He picked up the man’s pistol, shoved it inside his belt
and came straight toward Blaze and Delaney, ignoring the man he had
shot.

Men ran into the street and picked up the disabled outlaw, taking him
into one of the saloons. Frenchy had a smear of blood across his cheek
and blood was running from the back of his right hand.

“De sonn-of-a-gonn, she’s fool me!” he panted. “She’s have anodder gun
inside de vest. Ba gosh, I’m get dat gun, jus’ de same. Dis new gun be
de good wan, Blaze.”

Frenchy trotted back to the stable, while curious eyes followed him. He
had hit a running man--running through a dust cloud, at a hundred and
fifty yards, and with one shot. There was something sinister about a man
who could shoot like that and then ignore his victim, except to collect
his pistol. It savored of an Indian killing for a scalp. Wolf Butte had
become serious regarding the new sheriff.

Delaney had been watching the men carry the fallen outlaw away and now
he turned to Blaze.

“Carlin, I haven’t a bloodthirsty spot in my soul, but I could do a
scalp-dance right now. That was Buck Law, Bill McKeever’s pardner. Buck
is part Shoshone. McKeever is one of the worst killers in the territory
and he’ll sure be dancing Ditteau’s hair when he hears of this.”

Blaze smiled.

“Frenchy’s hair is on kinda tight, Delaney. He’s got the biggest heart
in the world, Frenchy has. If you told him about the Wheeler family he’d
be bawlin’ like a calf. Can’t stand sufferin’, somehow--not when it’s
women and kids, but he does love a fight. If yuh ever see him goin’ into
action, watch him close. He’s fast with a gun--fast as a streak, but
it’s the speed of a fox.

“Didja ever see one of them magic fellers--sleight-of-hand? Yuh did?
They ain’t so fast, Delaney, but they makes yuh look at somethin’ else
while they does the trick. Frenchy is always doin’ somethin’ just ahead
of his draw. I saw him do it when he shot Jim Clell.

“He said to Clell--‘You leave your gun with me,’ just like that, and all
the time he had his left hand half-closed, shufflin’ his fingers like he
was goin’ to crumble up somethin’ and throw it at Clell. Clell kinda
talked like a man in his sleep, tryin’ to watch that hand and Frenchy’s
other hand too. Clell went for his gun, but it was too late. His motion
was made like he had just happened to remember it and Frenchy beat him a
mile.”

“They tell me that you _sabe_ the six-gun yourself,” observed Delaney.

Blaze smiled and shook his head.

“Not too well. I need an even break, Delaney. I hate to shoot a man. It
always seems to me that it ain’t right to cut a man off. When a feller
fights his way up to my age, sufferin’ things and enjoyin’ things and
just livin’ along it don’t seem right for a man to cut him short with a
pinch of powder and a pellet of lead. I wonder if anybody deserves it.”

Blaze shook his head and continued:

“I reckon it’s got to be done though, and I also reckon that Fate wrote
in the big book that me and Frenchy Ditteau was to come here and make a
clean-up. I hope the big book has more pages about us after this chore
is done.”

“I sure hope so,” nodded Delaney. “I sure do, Carlin. I reckon I’ll
get some of the boys to go down there and help me bury Jack Wheeler.
His wife dragged him out of the creek and put him in the house.”

“My ----!” exclaimed Blaze, “I--I reckon some men deserve worse than a
pellet of lead--and I won’t feel sorry if I have to pull the trigger.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Blaze turned and walked back to the office. As he walked up to the
door a bullet whistled past his face and thudded into the casing. From
across the street came the muffled thump of a pistol shot. One of the
three front windows of the Eureka’s second story was open, but the
cheap, print curtains were drawn together.

Blaze whirled on his heel and went straight toward the saloon, walking
swiftly. He was deadly cool, ignoring the chance of another shot. This
was no time to back down; no time for anything except swift action.

Blaze had not reached the door, when another pistol shot seemed to jar
the building, but no bullet came his way. He walked inside. Men looked
at him, but it was evident that none of them in the big room connected
his coming in any way with the pistol shots. The room was in an uproar,
as two men quarreled over a misplaced bet on a roulette combination,
and it is doubtful if any one in the room had heard the two shots fired
upstairs.

Blaze walked straight for the stairway, which led to a balcony. The
second story of the Eureka was not divided off by a ceiling from the
lower floor, but was a rectangle of rooms leading on to a balcony.
Blaze trotted up the stairs and had just turned toward the front rooms
when a man stepped out of a door on to the balcony. Blaze stopped and
his hand dropped to his gun. The man turned his head and slowly closed
the door, then turned to face Blaze.

It was Chuck Sales. Had Sales fired the bullet which almost hit him?
Blaze touched the butt of his pistol ready to draw, but Sales made no
move toward his gun. He glanced over the balcony rail, looking over
the crowd. He lifted his head and smiled at Blaze.

In spite of himself Blaze smiled in return. There was something
contagious about that humorous smile, the lopsided nose and the face
overbalanced with the enormous chew of tobacco. Sales sauntered slowly
up to Blaze, turned sidewise and lifted his right elbow, disclosing a
heavy Colt gun which was shoved between his belt and body. Blaze lifted
it out and glanced at it. One shot had been fired.

“He made a mistake,” said Sales softly. “Good shot he was, but he had to
shoot left-handed. Never shoot a snake to cripple it, Carlin, ’cause yuh
must remember that yuh got to kill it to ruin its fangs.”

Sales walked slowly around to the stairs and went down into the crowd.
Blaze shoved the gun into the waistband of his pants and watched Sales
go to the roulette layout and buy chips.

Blaze knew that there was no use going to that room. Sales had killed
Mex Free; there was no question of that. Free had hid up there and tried
to kill Blaze, shooting with his left hand. Blaze remembered what Sales
had said about the need he--Blaze--would have of Sales’ gun.

A couple of dance-hall girls came out of a room next to the one Sales
had been in. They stopped at the door and looked at Blaze, as if afraid,
but Blaze smiled at them and they walked past him. To Blaze, a woman was
a woman, no matter what else she was, and he lifted his hat and bowed as
they went past.

One of them giggled foolishly, but the other stared at him for a moment,
turned her painted face away as if embarrassed and went down the stairs.
She was not a young woman, but there were traces of former beauty in her
face in spite of the glaring rouge and the penciled lines. Blaze
remembered her. She was the woman who laughed, when he hit Black Mora
with the beer mug.

He went back down the stairs and out through the crowd. Frenchy was
walking toward the office, carrying his rifle in the crook of his arm,
and Blaze crossed to meet him at the door.

“Somebody she’s try to mak’ fool from me,” grinned Frenchy. “Nobody come
to de stable now. I’m t’ink somebody’s tell about me--Frenchy Ditteau.
Ho, ho, ho! One feller she’s git mad for me, Blaze, and she’s talk bad.
I’m tie her up and teach her de sof’ language. Frenchy Ditteau she’s
hedg-u-cate, ba gosh!”

Blaze told him of Free’s attempt to kill him and Frenchy listened
open-mouthed to Blaze’s tale of Chuck Sales’ assistance.

“I’m hear from him,” nodded Frenchy. “De stableman she’s talk about
Sales. I’m t’ink dis Sales be sonn of a gonn for fight.”

Blaze told him of the Wheeler family, and at the finish of the tale,
Frenchy’s whiskers quivered with anger.

“De leetle kid, Blaze? His papa drown wit’ grandstone? De man what do
dis mus’ be find. Firs’ de cripple ol’ man killed, den de hones’ papa.
Frenchy Ditteau she’s on war-path, ba gosh!”

A group of horsemen rode past the office and swung over to the
hitch-rack near the Square Deal Saloon. Riding in the lead was Black
Mora, his ape-like shoulders hunched, looking neither to the right
nor left. They tied their horses and clattered into the saloon.

Blaze stood in the doorway watching them go in. Several men came out of
the Eureka, among them being Chuck Sales. One of the men spoke to Sales,
who nodded and started for the Square Deal. Blaze turned to Frenchy.

“Black Mora and his men just went into the Square Deal, Frenchy. Chuck
Sales is headed for there, too.”

“Ba gosh,” chuckled Frenchy, “I’m mak’ t’ink de grizzly git fed quick
now. We go dere, Blaze.”

They crossed the street and went in behind Sales. The men who had been
with Sales went in behind them.

Black Mora was leaning on the bar, a glass of liquor in his hand,
listening to a man who was telling what Mrs. Wheeler had told Delaney.
It was one of the two men who had followed her into the store. The man
was finishing his story and imparted the information that Delaney was
going to take care of the woman and little girl. Black Mora shrugged
his shoulders.

“Why do you tell me these things?” he asked sourly and threw the glass
of strong liquor full in the man’s face. The man staggered back, his arm
across his face, as if warding off a blow.

“Wimmin and kids don’t interest me none!” growled Mora. “What do I care
a ---- about ----”

Mora turned his head and looked full at Sales. The crowd drew away,
expecting serious trouble. This was the first time that Sales and Mora
had faced each other, and every one knew that there would be blood spilt
when they met.

Sales was smaller than Mora, yet Sales was by no manner of means a
small man, compared with the other men in the saloon. Mora’s face was
half-smiling insolently as he looked at Sales, but Sales’ crooked face
did not lose its indifferent expression.

Then Sales spat deliberately on Mora’s boots. It was an unforgivable
insult, yet Mora did not move. The smile faded from his lips and his
eyes drew down to mere slits. Mora knew that Sales was a killer--knew
that to reach for a gun would be suicide. His eyes shifted down for a
fraction of a second. Sales was smiling now, his tobacco-satined teeth
showing through his upcurled lips.

“I killed Mex Free, your best man,” said Sales softly, ominously. “He
kicked like a chicken with its head cut off.”

Still Mora did not move. His eyes shifted for an instant, as if seeking
a chance to get out of this encounter. Then Sales laughed.

“I’ve got yuh, Mora. I could kill yuh before yuh could move. My men
are behind your men, Mora, and they can’t help yuh none. You need
help, Black Mora. Want to run the country, eh? You big bully! You’re
scared of death right now, but I’m not goin’ to kill yuh--yet. You’re
bigger than I am, Mora, but I’m the better man. Take off your gun and
fight like a man, you lousy, mud-colored coyote!”

It was unthinkable. Black Mora swayed away from the bar, licking his
lips. His face broke into a wolfish grin. Mora had fought with his
hands and knew something of his own strength; knew that he could crush
an ordinary man, as a grizzly crushes a sheep.

A buzz of wonderment from the crowd. Was Sales crazy? Frenchy stepped in
front of Mora and held out his left hand.

“I’m tak’ de gun,” he announced. “I’m collect now.”

Mora’s hand had dropped to his belt-buckles, but now he stopped and
stared at Frenchy’s face, then at the hand before him which was opening
and shutting nervously. He hesitated. Would he give up his gun to the
sheriff? His hand jerked nervously away from his belt-buckle as he
looked at Frenchy’s hand. Others watched the hand, but Blaze watched
Frenchy’s right hand, which had gripped the butt of his pistol, ready
for a draw. Then Mora shook his head.

“All right. I don’t care a ---- who takes it.”

He handed Frenchy the belt and gun, little thinking how close he had
come to missing his fight with Sales. Blaze stepped forward and faced
the crowd.

“Gents, this is going to be a fair fight. When a man goes down the other
stays off and gives him a chance to come back. They fight only on their
feet. Understand?”

Sales, stripping off his shirts, flashed Blaze a look of gratitude. It
gave him a chance against this ape-man. Men threw chairs and tables
aside, clearing a large space. Word of the battle traveled fast, and in
a few moments there was a steady stream of men trying to claw their way
inside to see the fight.

A man offered big odds on Mora, but there were no takers. Nobody
considered that Sales had a chance.

“He can’t reach Mora’s head!” yelled a voice.

“Put Chuck on a chair!” yelled another. “We want to see what he looks
like.”

The men stripped quickly. Mora was even more ape-like, stripped. His
body was corded with muscles and his skin was a deep bronze. Sales
was broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip and his muscles were
small compared with those of his antagonist, but Blaze noticed that
Sales’ muscles were long and supple, while Mora’s were corded.

There was no time lost in preliminaries. Mora was ready first, moving
to the center of the cleared space. His head was hunched forward on
his short neck, his big hands opening and shutting as he waited for a
chance to wipe out the insult.

Sales sized Mora up and then shot a glance around the room.

“Come on!” growled Mora, like a hungry bear.

Sales laughed and stepped forward, slightly crouched, both arms swinging
easily, hands half-open. His long muscles rippled easily with the swing
of his arms. Mora stepped to meet him and quick as a flash Sales slapped
him across the mouth with his open hand. The blow had been cat-like in
its speed and it cut Mora’s lips. Before Mora could recover, Sales
slapped him across the bare chest. It was as if Sales was playing tag
with him.

Mora cursed and launched a mighty blow at Sales, but it passed over
Sales’ head, cleverly ducked. Men crowded closer, muttering. This was
not according to their calculations, but there was no cheering.

The two men were circling each other now. Blaze noticed that Sales kept
a perfect balance, while Mora seemed more clumsy, top-heavy. Mora swung
again, a wide sweeping smash. Sales blocked it with the point of his
elbow, catching Mora’s swinging arm between elbow and wrist. It seemed
to take all the power from Mora’s arm for a moment, and Sales shot a
straight right to his mouth.

Mora retreated slowly, his face contorted with rage. Then he sprang
forward like a tiger, seeking to circle Sales with his long arms.
Instead of evading them, Sales lunged forward to meet the attack.
Sales’ right hand flashed forward and upward, with the weight of his
body behind it, and buried itself at the point of Mora’s breastbone.

The circling arms slithered weakly off his shoulders, as Mora lopped
forward from the waist, staggering blindly. By superhuman effort he
kept his feet, but his swaying face was a green mask of agony, his
mouth stretched wide for air.

Sales moved swiftly, uppercutting with both hands to Mora’s face.
Measuring his distance, keeping pace with the backward moving Mora,
he smashed in short-arm uppercuts, with the regularity of a machine;
uppercuts which did not paralyze, but cut and bruised. Sales was
marking Mora for life.

He drove Mora through the crowd until he backed him against the wall.
Then Sales set himself for the final punch, while Mora, sobbing,
slobbering, tried to cover his face with helpless arms.

But the final blow was never struck. As Sales swung forward, a heavy
bottle whizzed across the room and crashed against his head. Sales
dropped like a log and over him fell Mora, blubbering for mercy.

For a moment there was silence; then the crash of a pistol shot. One
of the men who had been standing on the bar went backward, clawing
for support. He had thrown the bottle and some one in the crowd had
seen the deed.

Came the crash of breaking glassware, as he plunged behind the bar and
the tense crowd went hog-wild. Sales’ men were out for blood and Mora’s
men were willing to accommodate them, but the pistol was of little use
in that close-packed place.

Men drew their guns and swung them overhanded, clubbing the barrels
against anything which might come before them. Bottles flew crashing
against the walls; sometimes against heads. The wide doors were not
wide enough to accommodate the stampede, so windows were smashed to
make exits. Blaze had flung himself across Sales, shielding him from
the trampling feet, while Mora’s men strove to fight their way to
Mora’s side.

Blaze managed to get to his feet, holding Sales’ limp body, but was
buffeted aside by weight of numbers. He clung to the inert body with
one hand, while he clubbed his way through the crowd with his heavy
six-shooter. Above the roar of the tumult came Frenchy’s voice.

“Hol’ on, you ---- fools! Hol’ on! De sheriff say stop!”

But that crowd knew no authority. Blaze fought his way to the front
door, while Mora’s men managed to get their leader and half-drag him
out the back door. Bullets began to fly as soon as the clans were
separated sufficiently to tell which was which. Mora’s men got him
out of the door, but they had paid toll.

Three of his men did not get to the door and as many more were stretched
on the floor, downed by pistol barrels or thrown bottles. Four other
men, whether Sales’ men or otherwise, were also _hors de combat_. The
shooting stopped when Mora’s men disappeared.

Disheveled men staggered around in the street, clothes half-torn from
their bodies, bruised and bleeding. The saloon was a shambles, furniture
wrecked, mirrors shattered. Blaze staggered across to the office
carrying Sales, while behind him limped Frenchy, talking French so fast
that he fairly spat words as a machine gun spits bullets. Frenchy’s hat
and shirt were gone and his hair seemed to rise up like the roach on an
angry grizzly bear.

Blaze placed Sales on a cot and dashed a dipper of water into his face.
Sales blinked painfully and opened his eyes. A man, bruised about the
face and minus one sleeve of his shirt, came into the door and looked
at Sales. He spat out through the aperture of missing teeth and tried
to grin. Sales looked up at Blaze and then sat up on the cot, feeling
tenderly of the swollen cut on his head.

“How do you feel, Chuck?” asked the man.

Sales squinted up past his crooked nose at the questioner.

“That’s a ---- of a question to ask,” grunted Sales and then looked up
at Blaze and asked--“Did I lick him, Carlin?”

“Yuh did, Sales--yuh sure did and yuh licked him fair. Where did yuh
learn to fight like that?”

“Back East. I was a prize-fighter once. That’s where I got this
lop-sided nose. What happened after somebody hit me?”

“I got the bottle-thrower,” said the man. “He was a friend of Mora.
This here Carlin saved yuh from bein’ tramped to death, Chuck. I tried
to git yuh but I couldn’t go no place in that millin’ herd. I seen him
pick yuh up and fight his way through. McCarty, Simpson, and Franklyn
got hammered up a lot and Micky Shannon stopped a bullet, but I think
they’ll all pull through.”

Sales held out his hand to Blaze.

“I reckon you went out of your way to do this fer me, Carlin, and I
thank yuh to beat ----.”

“I ain’t thanked yuh for what yuh done for me over in the Eureka,”
smiled Blaze.

“Just came out even,” sighed Sales. “’Pears like I can’t never git
nobody indebted to me, ---- the luck.”

Doctor Brenton worked swiftly probing for bullets and binding up cuts
and bruises. There was not enough left of the Square Deal Saloon for
the owner even to promise an opening within a week, so the regular
habitués shifted their affections to the Eureka, the Double Cinch or
the High Card gambling-houses.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The fight was the subject of conversation and only seemed to add zest to
the business of the night. Chuck Sales was a hero. He had accomplished
the impossible. It was gossip that Chuck was formerly a prize-fighter,
of the then “bare-knuckle” school and he was favored of men; but Chuck
wore his honors with the crooked smile and a bandage around his head.

Fights were started over the merits of the punch which had made Black
Mora as helpless as a child. Men loaded with bad whisky demonstrated
it upon their acquaintances, which caused many upset stomachs and not
a little spilling of angry blood. Few men cared for fighting with
their hands, preferring the more rapid methods which seldom ended in
a draw decision.

Four of Mora’s men had been patched up and went home, but two of them
would never ride the ranges again. Only one of Sales’ men, Micky
Shannon, was unable to partake of the festivities and he would be
riding again in a few days. Several others had been slightly injured
in the melee. Luckily the fight was held at short range, which made
it impossible to shoot without danger of hitting friend as well as
foe, otherwise the toll would have been very much greater.

Blaze and Frenchy did not mix with the crowd, but stayed in the office.
Both of them had received superficial cuts and bruises. There was no
doubt that Black Mora would make reprisals if possible. He would have to
do something desperate to wipe out the disgrace of that whipping, and
his followers were likely in a mood to follow him on any undertaking.

Frenchy had talked so much during the day that his throat was weary. It
was the first time that Blaze had ever seen Frenchy tired of talking. He
lay stretched out on a cot, puffing slowly on his old pipe and staring
at the ceiling. Blaze walked slowly up and down the small room.

On the table was a pile of weapons which Frenchy had collected that
day and surmounting the pile was Black Mora’s belt and gun. Blaze took
it from the holster and looked it over. It was a single-action .44
Colt, with carved bone handle, depicting a running wolf. The figure of
the animal was in relief. Below the animal was carved the initials, J.
L. H.

“Black Mora packs another man’s gun,” observed Blaze, handing the weapon
to Frenchy.

Frenchy exhaled a cloud of smoke and examined the gun, peering at the
delicate carving.

“Somebody she’s do plenty work on de handle,” he observed, handing it
back to Blaze, who replaced it in the holster.

“I’m t’ink any man’s fool to put name on de gun.”

Came a timid knock on the door, barely audible. Frenchy got off the
cot and stretched his arms. From across the street came the sounds of
dancing, singing, voices raised in shrill argument.

Frenchy stepped to one side of the door while Blaze lifted the bar,
drawing the door to him. A woman stepped quickly inside and Blaze
shut the door behind her. Blaze dropped the bar into place and faced
the woman. It was the one who had laughed when he hit Black Mora,
the woman who had turned away when he had lifted his hat to her on
the Eureka balcony.

Blaze bowed to her and indicated a chair.

“Won’t yuh set down, ma’am?”

The woman shook her head.

“No, I’ve got to get back quick, but I had to ask you
something--something----”

She glanced quickly around the room as if afraid to talk. She was less
than thirty years of age, but hardened and haggard from her profession;
yet she appeared embarrassed. Beauty parlors were as yet unknown in the
West and the women of the dance-halls had little time for more than a
daub of paint, smeared in a grotesque imitation of the bloom of youth;
their hair frizzed with curling-irons which were heated in the chimney
of an oil-lamp, and decorated according to their own standards.

This woman’s dress was sparkling with cheap bangles and reeking with
perfume, which is supposed to dull the senses of uncouth men and lead
them to believe that this “rag, bone and a hank of hair” is perfection
personified.

“Ma’am,” said Blaze, “I’m glad to answer a question if I can.”

She hesitated for a moment as if thinking deeply.

“I heard a man talking about you today. I think he runs one of the
stores. He said that you found a man who--who had been hung.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Blaze, “we did find one man thataway.”

“At a little cabin in the gulch which leads to Cinnamon Creek?”

“Is Cinnamon Creek where Black Mora’s ranch is?” asked Blaze.

The woman nodded and compressed her lips.

“I can try to describe the old man,” volunteered Blaze. But the woman
got to her feet with a gesture of dissent. She leaned on the table for
a moment and then turned, with her back to the table, her hands behind
her and looked at Blaze.

“You heard what happened to Jack Wheeler?” she asked slowly.

Blaze nodded.

“Ma’am, it was awful--it sure was.”

She bit her lips as if to keep back the tears and walked back to the
door.

“I want to thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for answering my
question, and--and for taking off your hat to me.”

She lifted the bar before Blaze could assist her and slipped out into
the street. Blaze dropped the bar back into place and looked at Frenchy
who had never spoken while the woman was in the room.

“Whatcha know about that?” wondered Blaze.

Frenchy whittled some tobacco from his plug and filled his pipe. He
tamped the tobacco carefully and lit a sulfur match.

“Can’t yuh talk?” asked Blaze.

Frenchy nodded his head.

“Sure, I’m mak’ talk, Blaze, but first I’m mak’ t’ink. W’at you suppose
she’s tak’ Black Mora’s gun for, eh?”

“Black Mora’s gun?” parroted Blaze and stepped over to the table. The
holster was empty.

“She’s tak’ it when she’s back against de table,” explained Frenchy.

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

Frenchy puffed thoughtfully.

“Blaze, de woman no steal for de value of de gun, ba gosh. De woman
know some-t’ing. Mebbe she’s need gun. Mebbe she’s tak’ Black Mora’s
gun biccause his gun be de handies’, eh?”

“Suppose he comes after his gun, Frenchy? We ain’t got no right to keep
his gun.”

Frenchy shook his head.

“_Non_. We got no right, Blaze, but I’m not worry. When Black Mora come
for de gun, I’m mak’ t’ink I’m kill Black Mora. Chuck Sales she’s wort’
while for de fight; Beel McKeever she’s suppose to be big man, but I’m
got not’ing against dem two out-law. I’m----”

A heavy hand banged against the door. There was nothing timid about this
knock.

“Who’s out there?” asked Blaze.

A voice answered, saying something about Delaney, the rest of it being
drowned by the noise from the dance-hall. Blaze cautiously opened the
door. A man was standing there, his face shaded from the light. The
light was behind Blaze and Frenchy, which left their faces in the
shadow.

“What was it?” asked Blaze.

“Delaney wants yuh to come to his house,” stated the man. “The Wheeler
woman wants to talk to yuh.”

The man half-turned his head toward the dance-hall as he finished his
message. Without a sound, Frenchy sprang through the doorway into the
man, and both of them crashed to the ground. For a moment Blaze was
stunned at the suddenness of Frenchy’s actions, but sprang to his
assistance. The man twisted and cursed, but the little Frenchman had
pinned his arms.

Blaze removed the man’s gun and they dragged him inside and closed
the door. The man sat on the floor and stared at them. Blaze let the
full light of the lamp fall upon the man’s face. It was the man whom
Frenchy had booted at Cinnamon Creek; the man with mouse-colored
hair and empty eye-socket. He stared at them, wonderingly, his eye
wide open with fright. It suddenly occurred to Blaze that Mex Free
had been killed before telling Mora that the two men had not been
burned in the ranch-house fire, and that this man did not know until
now.

The man’s forehead had come in contact with the ground, and a trickle of
blood was running into his remaining eye, but he made no move to wipe it
away. He seemed bereft of motion or understanding.

“I’m never forget de man I’m kick,” stated Frenchy. “She’s plant de
trap, Blaze.”

“Delaney wants to see me, eh?” asked Blaze.

The man looked at Blaze, but did not affirm nor deny the question.
Frenchy leaned over the man, shoving his bearded face close and peering
into the one eye.

“Who sent you to lie?” asked Frenchy harshly, but the man was dumb. His
eye stared straight ahead, as if visioning the punishment he expected.

Frenchy stood up and looked at Blaze.

“W’at you t’ink, Blaze? Dis is Black Mora’s man for sure. She’s bring de
message to come and see Delaney. Delaney never send him, ba gosh!”

Frenchy snapped his words as if anxious to get into action again. Blaze
lifted a coiled rope from under the table and proceeded to hog-tie the
one-eyed man, who made no move to prevent it. Blaze roped him as only a
cowboy can do the job and when he was finished the one-eyed outlaw was
as secure as knots could make him. Not a word would the man speak, not
even a curse. He was taking no chances.

“Where you go?” asked Frenchy.

“Delaney’s place. Know where it is?”

“No. Mebbe somebody show us.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They closed the door behind them and went across the street. The closed
Square Deal Saloon made a dark spot in the otherwise lighted street. Two
men met them as they reached the sidewalk, and Blaze recognized one of
them as being the stable-man.

“Know where Delaney lives?” asked Blaze.

The man had recognized Blaze and Frenchy and gave them the directions in
a few words. Delaney lived a short distance from the business section,
back on the slope of a hill. Blaze and Frenchy did not go cautiously,
for the reason that Blaze believed that if it was an ambush, the outlaws
might mistake Frenchy for their messenger in the dark and give them a
chance to find out what they were up against. A dim light was burning in
Delaney’s front window. They were almost to the door when a voice said--

“Good work, Blue.”

Men rose up from behind them, men who were unseen in the shadows of
the fence and who ringed Frenchy and Blaze from every avenue of escape
except into the house.

“The house,” whispered Blaze. “Smash the window if the door is blocked.”

“---- yuh, I’ve got yuh where yuh won’t kick fer a while,” gritted Black
Mora’s voice.

Blaze whirled and fired at the figure which he thought was Black
Mora, while Frenchy’s pistol spat flame in the other direction. The
bushwhackers were taken by surprise; supposing that one of the two
was their messenger, Al Blue. Blaze swung his gun from figure to
figure, firing as fast as possible, while Frenchy emptied his gun
into the bulk of the men who were only a few feet from him.

Oaths and cries of pain mingled with the crashing of pistols. Blaze felt
a bullet tear through the flesh of his left forearm, while another bit
deeply across his shoulder. His gun was empty. Frenchy had ceased to
fire for the same reason. Straight for the door they ran, crashing into
it together and splintering the cheap latch. It was a narrow hallway,
opening each way into larger rooms.

Blaze bounded back from the wall and threw himself against the door.
Frenchy went to his knees and skidded almost into the right-hand room.
For a moment Blaze held the door with his shoulder, but he immediately
dropped flat, braced his feet against the bottom of it, while he calmly
shoved cartridges into his empty gun.

Bullets splintered the door, waist high to a man, but none of them came
low enough to injure Blaze. Frenchy reloaded as fast as possible and
crouched against the wall out of line with the door, cursing softly.

“Didja get hit, Frenchy?” asked Blaze.

“I’m los’ piece from my ear and git bullet in de leg; I’m t’ink one boot
she’s get irrigate from de blood. How you come?”

“Got a slug through my left arm and one through my left shoulder, I
think. Can’t shut my hand very good. We kinda busted up the meetin’,
Frenchy.”

“Ho, ho, ho! I’m have de gran’ time latelee. I’m never know dere be so
much good time in de worl’, Blaze. Where you suppose everybodee she’s
be? Where’s Delaney and de female wimmin’, eh?”

Blaze crawled away from the door, which swung ajar for a few inches.
Into the other room went Blaze, crawling softly in the dark. One room
was partly lighted with the smoking oil-lamp, but this one was in
darkness. Blaze crawled slowly, reaching ahead as much as possible;
crawling like a three-legged animal.

Suddenly his hand touched flesh. Like a flash his pistol barrel bored
into it but there was no movement. Blaze reached out with his injured
hand, not daring to take away the pistol, and felt tight ropes.

“Frenchy,” he called softly. “Come here, Frenchy.”

“Ba gosh, I’m come,” whispered Frenchy, and came limping softly into the
room.

“Light a match,” whispered Blaze.

Frenchy lighted a match, shading it with his hands. On the floor lay
Delaney, trussed with ropes, gagged with a dirty rag and with a
hangman’s noose around his neck. He had been bruised about the head,
but his eyes were open.

Blaze cut his bonds and ripped away the gag. For a moment Delaney was
unable to move, but he struggled to a sitting position as the match
flared out.

“Where are the women?” asked Blaze softly.

Delaney seemed unable to talk and when he did regain speech it was
barely a weak whisper.

“Gone. They stole them. Said they’d hang me as soon as they got you,
Carlin.”

“Shake yourself,” ordered Blaze. “Where have the women gone? Why did
Mora’s gang come here?”

“Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Delaney. “Black Mora wanted her. Those were
Mora’s men in the store when she came there. She knew it was Mora’s
gang that killed Jack. Mora killed him to get her. He knew she’d tell
me who got Jack and Mora was afraid.

“I heard him send the message to you. Mora’s face is cut to ribbons,
where Sales beat him. He said he was going to hang us both to the same
limb.”

“He’s got your wife, ain’t he?” asked Blaze.

“We were all here when they broke in,” whispered Delaney. “Mora grabbed
Mrs. Wheeler.”

Delaney got to his feet, mumbling to himself. Blaze moved back toward
the front door, his footsteps muffled in the heavy rag-carpet. The
oil-lamp was guttering in the other room, casting a yellow light over
the walls.

The half-open door began to squeak, as some one shoved it gently from
the outside. The sound of a husky whisper came to Blaze’s ears. Blaze
covered the edge of the door with his pistol. Suddenly a man’s body
moved into view, but before Blaze could shoot a streak of flame shot
from Frenchy’s gun and the man dropped to the floor.

“Ba gosh, you mebbe wait too long sometime, Blaze,” said Frenchy softly.

They listened, waited. Outside came a shrill whistle and a moment later
the sound of galloping horses. Blaze took a chance. He hurdled the man
in the doorway and sprang into the yard.

By the dim light from the moon he could see men riding away. Two
horsemen swung past him, coming from the rear of the house. Blaze
emptied his pistol as the horses thundered past. One of the men cursed
and fired back. Fifty feet beyond, the horses seemed to crash together
and go down.

Frenchy and Delaney joined him. Blaze had watched, but could not tell
whether the horsemen had gone to town or not.

“Mora gave up trying to get us,” said Blaze. “He’s taken the women with
him, I think. He’s lost too many men already, and he knows we are still
alive. Look out for them two out there by the horses. They may have some
fight left.”

They separated and started for the spot where the horses had fallen.
A few feet away, Blaze stumbled over the body of a man, which proved
that Mora’s surprize party had not worked out as he had planned. They
found the horses--one dead, the other crippled, but there was no sign
of the two men.

The three men stood there, undecided. Far away they could hear the
music from the dance-halls, soft and as indefinite as the light from
the fleece-covered moon. The saddle creaked on the crippled horse,
as the animal started to move away. Far back in the hills a coyote
lifted its voice in lamentation.

“Ba gosh, she’s de peaceful night,” breathed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to go to
sleep, Blaze.”

“How does the leg feel, Frenchy?”

“Not feel much. I’m not t’ink she’s belong to me. My boot squash, squash
all de time. How’s de arm?”

“Can’t lift it,” said Blaze. “Weighs a ton. Buck up, Frenchy; we’ve got
to get Black Mora tonight.”

“She’s a fact,” said Frenchy. “We got t’ree good leg and t’ree good hand
left, which mak’ plenty fun, ba gosh!”

“My wife!” exclaimed Delaney suddenly, as if he had just awakened. “My
----, they’ve got my wife!”

He trotted toward the town with Blaze and Frenchy following painfully
behind.

“Delaney got shocked, I reckon,” muttered Blaze. “He’s just rememberin’
things, Frenchy.”

“I’m kill, kill----” muttered Frenchy complainingly, as if talking to
himself. “De bad-man mus’ be kill biffore de countree she’s good to
live here.”

Blaze knew that Frenchy was weakening from the loss of blood. His voice
was halting and his left leg seemed to drag. Suddenly Frenchy increased
his pace and his voice boomed out:

“Ho, ho, ho! Ba gosh! All de time I’m mak’ t’ink of de squash, squash
inside de boot. To ---- wit’ de squash! First we git Mora, den we sleep.
Ho, ho, ho!”

“Good man!” grunted Blaze, gritting his teeth over his throbbing
shoulder and arm. “We’ll clean ’em up, old pardner.”

Frenchy stumbled and almost fell to his knees.

“Hurrah for ----!” he croaked drunkenly. “Who’s afraid of de fire?”

Blaze steadied him with his good arm and Frenchy laughed foolishly. They
reached the street and headed for the Eureka, passing the other places.
Frenchy was weaving, stumbling, but Blaze helped him along.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Into the saloon they went and men stepped aside to let them through.
The woman, who had stolen Mora’s gun, was standing on a platform,
singing, but stopped when she saw Blaze and Frenchy, who came up near
the platform. The violin quit in the middle of a bar of music.

Blaze faced the crowd, lifting his good hand as a signal for silence.
The room stilled in a moment, except for the shuffling of feet. Frenchy
was hunched from weariness, but watched the crowd, with his right hand
near the butt of his gun.

“Men,” said Blaze hollowly, “you know us. We’re cleanin’ up this town.”

Sales was standing near the bar and now he moved closer to Blaze. From
back in the crowd came a voice--

“Look out yuh don’t drown in your own suds.”

“Black Mora and his men stole two women and a little girl tonight.”
Blaze’s voice was cool. “Black Mora is the leader of the cut-throat
gang, who are posing as vigilantes. No man or woman is safe while his
gang are alive.”

The crowd received this statement silently. A man pushed his way to
the front and faced Blaze. He was a tall, gaunt figure of a man,
yellow as old ivory. His taffy-colored hair was matted and a long,
greasy lock curved over his forehead and almost to the bridge of his
nose. His eyes were cavernous and the light from the hanging lamps
made deep hollows under his cheek-bones. A yellow muffler around his
neck seemed to increase the sallowness of his face. Blaze had never
seen this man before.

“Talk to ’em, McKeever,” urged a man behind him. Blaze knew that this
was Bill McKeever, a partner of Buck Law, whom Frenchy had shot.

“Got gunned up and now you’re lookin’ fer help, eh?” drawled McKeever.
“Bit off more ’n yuh can chaw and now you’re huntin’ fer sympathy. Well,
yuh won’t git a ---- bit of it hereabouts. I ain’t forgot Buck Law, and
by ----, if yuh wasn’t crippled----”

“It’s my left hand, McKeever,” replied Blaze coldly. “I use my right
hand for shootin’. I’ve had plenty of shootin’ today, but if you must
have it----”

McKeever was moving as Blaze spoke. His hand streaked to his gun,
drew swiftly, but his gun exploded into the ceiling. Blaze had shaded
him just enough to send a bullet ripping through McKeever’s knuckles,
scoring his forearm and burning across the ribs of the man who had
urged McKeever on.

The crowd split with a rush, but above it all came Chuck Sales’ voice:

“Steady, steady! Carlin stopped him, gents. No use of any more trouble.”

McKeever staggered back, nursing his shattered hand, cursing impotently,
his nerve gone. Then Sales sprang to the platform, shouting:

“Listen to me, you bunch of mangy coyotes! Stay here and suck a
bottle and be ----ed to yuh! Dance, you whelps, while that offspring
of the devil runs away with good women. Me and my men ride with the
law tonight, and when we come back we’re goin’ to help the sheriff
do the rest of his washin’.”

Seven men, including Blaze and Frenchy, followed Sales out of the
saloon, plowing their way through the crowd, which split wide open to
let them through.

“Horses are at the hitch-rack!” cried Sales. “We’ll find enough to carry
us.”

Frenchy was staggering and Blaze put an arm around his shoulder.

“Keep goin’, pardner,” urged Blaze.

“Ba gosh, I’m go!” declared Frenchy weakly. “I’m go, but de legs she’s
forgit how to lif’ up. I’m tired like ----, Blaze Carlin.”

Sales and his men were ahead. Blaze and Frenchy were passing the front
of the deserted Square Deal Saloon, when Frenchy jerked to a stop and
almost fell.

“You hear dat, Blaze? You hear de woman scream?”

“Keep goin’, Frenchy,” urged Blaze. “There wasn’t no woman screamin’,
old pardner.”

“I hear,” declared Frenchy stubbornly, stumbling toward the door of the
deserted saloon. “She’s sound lak’ somebody choke hoff de scream.”

Blaze stepped to the smashed window, across which had been nailed
strips of boards, and tried to peer into the blackness. There was
moonlight enough to show that the back door was open, and against the
moonlit strip of the rear door moved the figures of men.

Blaze turned to Frenchy, who was trying to see inside, and gripped him
tight.

“Stand here, Frenchy!” he whispered fiercely. “Black Mora was sure we’d
go to his ranch to find him and he’s holed up in here, where nobody’d
think to look for him. Maybe he was afraid we’d catch him in the hills,
do you understand, Frenchy?” Blaze shook him by the arm. “They’ve got
them women in there! If Wolf Butte went huntin’ Black Mora, he’d be
right here to raise ---- with the town while we was gone. Do you know
what I mean?”

“You t’ink I’m ---- fool en-tire, Blaze?”

Frenchy’s voice was cold as steel. Dizzy and sick from loss of blood,
yet his will was stronger than his flesh.

“You get Sales,” ordered Frenchy. “We smash dis Black Mora, ba gosh!”

Blaze trotted up the street, where men were mounting horses at the
hitch-rack.

“Sales!” cried Blaze. “Chuck Sales! This is Carlin.”

“Here’s a horse for you, Carlin,” answered Sales.

“Wait!” panted Blaze. He stepped in beside Sales and told him what they
had discovered.

“Tie your horses!” ordered Sales sharply, calling to his men who had
already-mounted. “Turn ’em loose--do anything, but hurry!”

None of them took time to tie their horses and in a few moments crowded
around their leader and Blaze. Sales gave them the information in a few
words.

“Be careful,” he added. “There’s two women and a little girl in there
and we don’t want them hurt.”

“One is Jack Wheeler’s wife,” said one of the men. “She’s fed me three
times.”

“I knowed Jack,” said another. “They hung a grindstone around his neck
and throwed him in the creek.”

“Black Mora swore he’d steal her,” declared Blaze.

“We’ll split into two bunches,” said Sales. “Slim, you and Flack go
with Carlin to the front where the sheriff is. The rest of us will go
to the back. Give us time to get there, will yuh, Carlin? I’ll let out
a war-whoop when we arrive. They’ll think I’m just drunk.”

Blaze and his two men went down the street, walking slowly so as not
to arrive much ahead of Sales and his men. They found Frenchy braced
against a corner of the building. Blaze put his hand on Frenchy’s
shoulder and shook him.

“You t’ink I’m ’sleep?” growled Frenchy. “I’m tak’ off de boot and pour
out de squash, squash, and I’m can’t get de boot on no more, ba gosh!”

“Stay with her, pardner,” encouraged Blaze. “We’ll go to bed when this
here thing is over.”

“De bed,” muttered Frenchy. “Dat’s de good word, Blaze, I’m tire like
----, but de work mus’ be do.”

From the rear of the building floated the eerie war-whoop, which Sales
had promised as a signal. Blaze peered into the building just in time to
see the door close, cutting off the moonlight from the rear. From inside
came the dull thump of a six-shooter. Footsteps rattled across the floor
and a man darted to the front window and then dropped to the floor.

“Get down!” he yelled, followed by unprintable oaths. “They’re at the
front, too!”

Another voice cursed feelingly and a bullet whizzed out through the
half-boarded window.

“We’ve got yuh trapped,” stated Blaze. “Yuh can’t get away. Throw your
guns out of the window and come out with your hands up.”

But there was no response. The men knew only too well what it meant.
There would be scant mercy for any of them and Mora’s men would rather
die fighting than on the gallows. Mora laughed mockingly. He was at
the end of his rope, but would not admit it as long as he lived. Blaze
grasped one of the boards and tore it off the window. Bullets
splintered through the board, but did no damage. Blaze ripped them all
off, which left the large window unprotected.

“What’s the idea?” asked one of Sales’ men. “You ain’t goin’ in, are
yuh?”

“May have to,” said Blaze calmly.

“Carlin!” shouted Black Mora. “Do yuh hear me?”

“Go ahead,” said Blaze. “Talk fast!”

“I’ve got two women in here,” stated Black Mora. “I’ll make a trade with
yuh, Carlin. You let me and my men get out and get away and I’ll give
yuh the wimmin and the kid. Talk fast or the deal’s off. We go free, or
by ---- the wimmin and kid git what you give us, _sabe_?”

“No gut,” declared Frenchy weakly. “Don’ trus’ him, Blaze.”

“Go to the rear and tell Sales to try to smash in the door,” whispered
Blaze to one of the men. “Tell him to hit it hard.”

The man ran to the corner and circled the building. Blaze ducked below
the window-sill and crept in close.

“Well, are yuh goin’ to talk business?” growled Mora. There was a note
of uneasiness in his voice, as if his nerves were badly worn. Blaze did
not reply.

Suddenly there was a crash at the rear door, which threatened to tear
the door from its hinges. Blaze shot upright, vaulted through the
window and dropped flat on the floor. He had succeeded in attracting
all the attention to the rear and not a man in the building had seen
him come in.

The blows were shattering the door, tearing off the hinges. Pistols
flashed and bullets thudded into the door, but the door was too thick
for the bullets to injure the men outside, who were using a wagon-wheel
for a battering-ram.

The pistol flashes momentarily lighted the place for Blaze, and he was
able to locate the women, who were bound and sitting upright against the
top of an overturned table. Blaze crawled to them, while Black Mora and
his men expended ammunition against the door and cursed brokenly.

Blaze reached the women and touched one of them on the head to satisfy
himself that he was not mistaken. “Go out the front!” ordered Mora.
“That ---- door won’t last another smash. Jump out the window and take
a chance. Those ---- women----”

                   *       *       *       *       *

MORA stepped across the room, feeling in the darkness. Blaze was on
his feet now, crouched in front of the women, and Mora’s groping hands
touched him.

“Who in ----?” grunted Mora.

Blaze clubbed his gun, striking at Mora’s head with the barrel, but
he misjudged direction and struck Mora’s shoulder, eliciting a yelp
of pain. Mora flung himself forward, encircling Blaze with both arms.
As they crashed to the floor there came a sound of splintering wood
as the door gave way, the shouts of men, the thudding of pistols.

Blaze went down with Mora on top of him, clawing, biting, striking
blindly. Blaze drew up his knees as he fell, and was thus able to
prevent Mora from reaching his throat. His wounded arm was caught under
Mora’s knee, and his shoulder came in contact with a table-leg.

Mora slackened his frenzied attempt to reach Blaze’s throat and grasped
Blaze by the knees, trying to throw them aside. Like a flash, Blaze
rolled sidewise, landed on his knees and sprang to his feet. Mora
clawed himself upright, cursing hoarsely. Outside a conflict seemed to
rage, but Blaze and Mora had the room to themselves. Blaze had lost his
gun and he knew that Mora must be in the same fix.

This thought was only a flash, for Mora dived into him again. Blaze
smashed him with a right-hand swing, but Mora growled hoarsely and
grappled Blaze around the waist.

Weakened as he was, Blaze was no match for Mora in this kind of
fighting, yet he continued to drive short blows to Mora’s already
disfigured face. They crashed into an upturned chair and went down,
fighting with tooth and nail. Mora’s breath was sobbing into Blaze’s
ear and there seemed to be little pressure from Mora’s left arm.

Blaze wondered if the blow from the pistol barrel had not injured Mora’s
shoulder. Blaze was almost exhausted, but he fought savagely. He managed
to get his fist beneath Mora’s chin, driving upward with every ounce of
his strength.

Mora groaned and that groan was his undoing. Blaze laughed. He was a
better man than Mora. Blaze laughed aloud, a wheezing chuckle. Mora
blubbered a curse and tried to get his fingers around Blaze’s throat,
but Blaze tore his hand away and ground the heel of his palm into
Mora’s nose.

Suddenly Mora surged away from him and started to get to his feet.
Blaze laughed again and tried to revile Mora for being a coward, but
his vocal cords refused to function. Very well, he would get up, too,
and they could fight more. It was hard work, this getting up, but he
managed to get to his feet. He struck at Mora, but Mora did not fight
back. Mora almost fell out of the rear door, which was splintered and
sagging. Blaze staggered after him, shoving Mora toward the rear of
the Eureka.

Once Mora stopped and tried to go the other way, but Blaze struck him in
the neck; struck him with a fist which would not stay clenched, and Mora
whimpered like a beaten puppy.

The front of Mora’s shirt was splotched with blood, where a bullet had
ripped through the muscles, and there was a jagged furrow across his
neck, where another chunk of hot lead had barely missed its kill.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mora stumbled into the rear door of the Eureka. He stopped, but Blaze
bumped into him, shoving him ahead. The room was in a turmoil.

Sales, pistol in hand, a bloody smear across his face, had his left
hand twisted into the collar of a man and was holding him against the
bar. Another man was lying on the floor, with Frenchy standing astride
of him, his knees half-bent, mouth wide open, but still gripping his
big Colt; dangerous as an old crippled wolf. Two of Sales’ men were
holding another man against a card-table. The crowd had given them
plenty of room.

Straight ahead staggered Mora, head down and weaving like a wounded
animal, while behind him came Blaze, scarcely able to lift his feet.

A group of dance-hall girls scattered to let Mora through. He came to a
stop near Frenchy.

“By ----, he didn’t get away!” croaked Sales.

Frenchy threw up his head and looked at Mora.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Frenchy’s voice rasped weakly. “Tak’ look, everybodee! De
big one she’s come to be judged!”

Suddenly a woman, the woman who had stolen Black Mora’s gun, rushed
past Blaze. She stopped a few feet from Mora, her right hand buried
in the folds of her dress.

Her face was white with fury. Her penciled eyes gleamed green in the
murky light, and her carmined lips were a thin, red line, barely
discernible. For a moment she stared at Black Mora. He seemed about
to speak to her, but she forestalled him.

“Black Mora, I’ve waited for you. You made me what I am because I was
afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you now.”

She brushed her hand across her brow as if to clear her thoughts.

“My old father--you killed him, Black Mora. He came to this country to
kill you for what you done to me and you and your men hung him. He was
old and crippled, but you feared him.

“You and your vigilantes! Ha, ha, ha! You told me you would run this
country and that you would marry me. You wanted Jack Wheeler’s wife;
so you murdered him.”

Mora’s mouth was wide open and his breath was jerking from his lips, but
no protest came from him. Cold fear gripped his heart. The crowd made no
move. Blaze listened dully, as if to an oft-told tale, wishing that the
woman would keep still so he could sleep. Frenchy was swaying on his
feet, fighting to keep above the man, who had turned on his side and was
staring at Mora, as if wondering if his chief could save him.

“You wanted power,” continued the woman, without a trace of inflexion in
her voice. “Power--women! Ha, ha, ha!”

Her lips barely opened to emit the cackling laugh, and the lines of her
face did not change.

“Women, Mora. You didn’t care what breed. You lied to me. You killed my
father and stole his gun. Listen to me, Mora. You said that my voice
pleased you more than any you ever heard. Listen to it, because it’s the
last voice you’ll ever hear. My father’s gun, Mora. His initials are on
the handle. Jack Henderson, whom the Indians called Running Wolf. He
carved his hate into those handles, but he loved the gun, because it was
to kill you. Do you hear me, Mora?”

Her voice was almost a scream.

“I’ve got that gun, Mora! Pray--quick!”

Mora threw out his arm blindly. Blaze lurched to grasp the woman, but
her hand came up swiftly, the skirt still covering the muzzle of the
gun.

Just once it roared. Mora jerked back, seemed to collapse like a bundle
of rags and crashed to the floor.

The woman dropped the gun and staggered back against the bar, her flimsy
dress flaming. She screamed as Blaze grabbed her and swung her around.
His ebbing strength flared up as his hand grasped her bodice and with
one jerk he ripped off her gown and sent her spinning into the group of
hysterical girls.

Blaze kicked the flaming dress to the center of the room. For a moment
there was silence; then came a dull thump. Frenchy Ditteau had fallen
to his knees, straddling his captive, clutching him with both hands.

“De job is done.” Frenchy’s voice was barely audible. “De bad-man she’s
all t’rough in Wolf Butte, and I’m ver’ tire’ of de squash, squash----”

Frenchy slid forward across his man, face down. Blaze tried to go to
him, but the room whirled. In a dull sort of a way he seemed to feel
hands grasping him and carrying him away. It seemed good to move
without effort.

Suddenly the hands seemed to release him. His body stiffened to take
the shock, which did not come. Then he opened his eyes. He was in a
strange room. Across from him he could see another bed, around which
a blue cloud seemed to hover.

He tried to move, but his left side seemed to be bandaged tightly.
After a moment’s reflection he lifted his head. A man was standing at
a window, while another was humped over, sitting in a chair.

Footsteps were coming up the hall. The man got out of his chair and went
to the door. For a few moments there was a whispered conversation. The
door closed and the man came toward the foot of the bed.

It was Chuck Sales. He glanced at Blaze and a glad smile lighted up his
homely features. He dropped a heavy object on a table and came quickly
to the head of the bed.

“Carlin,” he said, “I’m danged glad to see yuh with your eyes open.”

“Ba gosh!” came an exclamation from the smoke enshrouded bed across the
room, “Blaze, are you ’wake up?”

“Hello, old pardner,” called Blaze weakly.

The other man came to Blaze. It was Judge Whalen. He looked down at
Blaze, a glad smile in his eyes.

“Yuh might tell me about it,” suggested Blaze.

“Doc Brenton told me to keep yuh quiet,” stated Sales, “but I don’t
reckon a little tellin’ is goin’ to hurt yuh any. Them women wasn’t
hurt none and Mora’s gang is completely wiped out. Wolf Butte is
tamed, Carlin.”

“Do yuh mean that?” queried Blaze. “Did all that killin’ do any good?”

The judge picked up the small table and carried it around to where Blaze
could see it. On it were at least twenty pistols. Sales lifted the top
two and smiled down at Blaze.

“These two just came in. There ain’t nobody down there to make ’em give
up their guns, but they’re all doin’ it. I’m takin’ it upon myself to
look out for you two, but I wish you’d hurry up and git well.”

“A few more days of this civilized town and I won’t have a horse-thief
left to follow me. You fellers sure did put one awful crimp in my
business.”

Sales walked back to the window and the judge sat down on the edge of
the bed.

“Carlin, you can’t realize what you have done,” said the judge softly,
and then added--“you and Ditteau. It will be years before Wolf Butte
will be anything except a border-town, but it will be an orderly
border-town--a town where good men and women may live in peace. You
took the only method of making it change its ways, and--well, we won’t
try to thank you.”

“You’re welcome, judge,” said Blaze simply.

“I’m sure had one gran’ time--me,” stated Frenchy. “Nobody she’s have to
t’ank Frenchy Ditteau, ba gosh, biccause I’m enjoy everyt’ing, you bet.”

“You fightin’ son of a gun!” laughed Sales and pointed out of the
window. “Here comes more artillery. Reckon I better git my gang and
drag out of here before a preacher hits town.”

Blaze grinned contentedly and stared up at the ceiling. He had done
something for the country--something worth while, and he was glad.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 20, 1922 issue
of Adventure magazine.]



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