The day was already hot with the dry, breathless, but exhilarating, beat of the desert. A throng of men idling at the edge of the sidewalks, jostling up and down their centre, or eddying into the places of amusement, acknowledged the power of summer by loosening their collars, carrying their coats on their arms. They were as yet busily engaged in recognising acquaintances. Later they would drink freely and gamble, and perhaps fight. Toward all but those whom they recognised they preserved an attitude of potential suspicion, for here were gathered the "bad men" of the border countries. A certain jealousy or touchy egotism lest the other man be considered quicker on the trigger, bolder, more aggressive than himself, kept each strung to tension. An occasional shot attracted little notice. Men in the cow-countries shoot as casually as we strike matches, and some subtle instinct told them that the reports were harmless. As the rider entered the one street, however, a more definite cause of excitement drew the loose population toward the centre of the road. Immediately their mass blotted out what had interested them. Curiosity attracted the saunterers; then in turn the frequenters of the bars and gambling games. In a very few moments the barkeepers, gamblers, and look-out men, held aloof only by the necessities of their calling, alone of all the population of Pereza were not included in the newly-formed ring. The stranger pushed his horse resolutely to the outer edge of the crowd where, from his point of vantage, he could easily overlook their heads. He was a quiet-appearing young fellow, rather neatly dressed in the border costume, rode a "centre fire," or single-cinch, saddle, and wore no chaps. He was what is known as a "two-gun man": that is to say, he wore a heavy Colt's revolver on either hip. The fact that the lower ends of his holsters were tied down, in order to facilitate the easy withdrawal of the revolvers, seemed to indicate that he expected to use them. He had furthermore a quiet grey eye, with the glint of steel that bore out the inference of the tied holsters. The newcomer dropped his reins on his pony's neck, eased himself to an attitude of attention, and looked down gravely on what was taking place. He saw over the heads of the bystanders a tall, muscular, wild-eyed man, hatless, his hair rumpled into staring confusion, his right sleeve rolled to his shoulder, a wicked-looking nine-inch knife in his hand, and a red bandana handkerchief hanging by one corner from his teeth. "What's biting the locoed stranger?" the young man inquired of his neighbour. The other frowned at him darkly. "Dare's anyone to take the other end of that handkerchief in his teeth, and fight it out without letting go." "Nice joyful proposition," commented the young man. He settled himself to closer attention. The wild-eyed man was talking rapidly. What he said cannot be printed here. Mainly was it derogatory of the southern countries. Shortly it became boastful of the northern, and then of the man who uttered it.
He swaggered up and down, becoming always the more insolent as his challenge remained untaken. "Why don't you take him up?" inquired the young man, after a moment. "Not me!" negatived the other vigorously. "I'll go yore little old gunfight to a finish, but I don't want any cold steel in mine. Ugh! it gives me the shivers. It's a reg'lar Mexican trick! With a gun it's down and out, but this knife work is too slow and searchin'."
The newcomer said nothing, but fixed his eye again on the raging man with the knife.
"Don't you reckon he's bluffing? "be inquired.
"Not any!" denied the other with emphasis. "He's jest drunk enough to be crazy mad."
The newcomer shrugged his shoulders and cast his glance searchingly over the fringe of the crowd. It rested on a Mexican. "Hi, Tony! come here," he called. The Mexican approached, flashing his white teeth. "Here," said the stranger, "lend me your knife a minute." The Mexican, anticipating sport of his own peculiar kind, obeyed with alacrity. "You fellows make me tired," observed the stranger, dismounting. "He's got the whole townful of you bluffed to a standstill. Damn if I don't try his little game." He hung his coat on his saddle, shouldered his way through the press, which parted for him readily, and picked up the other corner of the handkerchief. "Now, you mangy son of a gun," said he.
CHAPTER THREE - THE AGREEMENT
Jed Parker straightened his back, rolled up the bandana handkerchief, and thrust it into his pocket, hit flat with his hand the touselled mass of his hair, and thrust the long hunting knife into its sheath. "You're the man I want," said he.
Instantly the two-gun man had jerked loose his weapons and was covering the foreman. "AM I!" he snarled. Not jest that way," explained Parker. "My gun is on my hoss, and you can have this old toad-sticker if you want it. I been looking for you, and took this way of finding you. Now, let's go talk." The stranger looked him in the eye for nearly a half minute without lowering his revolvers. "I go you," said he briefly, at last. But the crowd, missing the purport, and in fact the very occurrence of this colloquy, did not understand. It thought the bluff had been called, and naturally, finding harmless what had intimidated it, gave way to an exasperated impulse to get even. "You - - - bluffer!" shouted a voice, "don't you think you can run any such ranikaboo here!" Jed Parker turned humorously to his companion. "Do we get that talk?" he inquired gently. For answer the two-gun man turned and walked steadily in the direction of the man who had shouted. The latter's hand strayed uncertainly toward his own weapon, but the movement paused when the stranger's clear, steel eye rested on it. "This gentleman," pointed out the two-gun man softly, "is an old friend of mine. Don't you get to calling of him names." His eye swept the bystanders calmly. "Come on, Jack," said be, addressing Parker. On the outskirts be encountered the Mexican from whom he bad borrowed the knife. "Here, Tony," said he with a slight laugh, "here's a peso. You'll find your knife back there where I had to drop her."
He entered a saloon, nodded to the proprietor, and led the way through it to a boxlike room containing a board table and two chairs.
"Make good,"he commanded briefly.
"I'm looking for a man with nerve," explained Parker, with equal succinctness. "You're the man." "Well?"
"Do you know the country south of here?" The stranger's eyes narrowed. "Proceed," said he. "I'm foreman of the Lazy Y of Soda Springs Valley range," explained Parker. "I'm looking for a man with sand enough and sabe of the country enough to lead a posse after cattle-rustlers into the border country." "I live in this country," admitted the stranger. "So do plenty of others, but their eyes stick out like two raw oysters when you mention the border country. Will you tackle it?" "What's the proposition?" "Come and see the old man. He'll put it to you." They mounted their horses and rode the rest of the day. The desert compassed them about, marvellously changing shape and colour, and every character, with all the noiselessness of phantasmagoria. At evening the desert stars shone steady and unwinking, like the flames of candles. By moonrise they came to the home ranch.
The buildings and corrals lay dark and silent against the moonlight that made of the plain a sea of mist. The two men unsaddled their horses and turned them loose in the wire-fenced "pasture," the necessary noises of their movements sounding sharp and clear against the velvet hush of the night. After a moment they walked stiffly past the sheds and cook shanty, past the men's bunk houses, and the tall windmill silhouetted against the sky, to the main building of the home ranch under its great cottonwoods. There a light still burned, for this was the third day, and Buck Johnson awaited his foreman. Jed Parker pushed in without ceremony.
"Here's your man, Buck," said he.