As if in answer to the words came a flash from a belt of pines six hundred yards down the slope, a current of cool air passed between the faces of the two men, and a dull thud told that the bullet had buried itself in the ranch-house. Then followed the muffled crash of a rifle-shot. Instantly from the top of the trail came an answering report, and a shadowy rider raced through the dusk towards the pines.
"Near thing, Purdie," the foreman said coolly. "Moody will smoke him out if he waits, but I'm bettin' against it. I've been expectin' somethin' o' the sort, an' we gotta take turns sleepin'." He grinned at the men who had come piling out of the bunkhouse. "It's all right, boys, no damage done, an' there ain't anythin' we can do--yet," he said, adding meaningly, "An' we shore make a fine target bunched together like this."
The men took the hint and returned to the bunkhouse, but the muttered threats boded ill for the Circle B if the two outfits came to open warfare. The rancher and his foreman retired to the house, where they found Nan anxiously awaiting them. Sudden had paused on the way to dig out the bullet. Now, by the light of the lamp, he was examining it.
"Another .38. Still clingin' to that notion, seemin'ly," he remarked.
The girl's question brought the reply she might have expected from her father. "Luce Burdette, tryin' to lay me alongside Kit," he said savagely. "Dirty, bushwhackin' skunk."
Her face paled, but she did not reply. The foreman took up the cudgels. "Someone is framin' that boy, Purdie," he said. "An' it was me they were after; remember, they don't know how much Cal told me; whoever's got him is back o' this."
The owner of the C P shrugged his shoulders. These repeated outrages were sorely trying his patience--short, at the best of times--and the thought that the shot in the dark might have struck down his daughter filled him with fury. A forthright man, with the simple creed of the frontier, he would have gathered his riders and gone in search of his foes but for his foreman.
"That's what they're workin' for," Sudden had more than once told him. "It'll come to that in the end, but for now, let 'em run on the rope; we'll throw 'em good an' plenty when the time comes."
And because of his growing faith in this confident young stranger with the steady eyes and firm lips upon which danger brought no more than a sardonic smile, Purdie let him have his way.
*
The marshal draped his spare form against the bar of "The Lucky Chance," wrapped his fingers round the glass of liquor he had just poured out, and gave a comprehensive glance at the company. The place was fairly full, but the man he sought was not present. Mart Burdette, however, was lolling on a near chair, and a brief look of understanding passed between them.
"Evenin' Sam," the saloon-keeper greeted. "Anny news o' th' missin' man yit?"
"Nope," the officer replied, "but I'm expectin' a fella who may be able to gimme some, an' here he is."
"Is it Green ye mane?" Magee asked, as the C P foreman and Yago entered. "What will he be after knowin' about it?"
"I'm here to find out," the marshal said somewhat loudly. "Hey, Green, I want yu."
The cow-puncher detected hostility in the tone but he smiled as he inquired.
"What's the charge, marshal?"
"There ain't none--yet," was the retort. "Just a few questions, that's all."
"Toot yore li'l horn an' go ahaid," Sudden replied, as he leaned lazily against the bar and sampled the drink Magee pushed forward.
"It's about--Cal," Slype began slowly. "I hear yu was the last man to see him alive."
"Why, is he dead, then?" the puncher inquired.
"Mebbe he is an' mebbe he ain't," the marshal snapped. "I'm doin' the askin', an' I wanta know whether yu was up at his shack the day he disappeared?"
Sudden did not reply immediately; the question had taken him by surprise. A hush had come over the gathering, and he divined that some of those present had known of the marshal's intention. Save for Purdie, Yago, and the prospector, only the assassin had been aware of his visit to the shack, and if the latter had talked it could only be for a purpose.
"I certainly had a chat with Cal that mornin'," he said. Slype's small eyes gleamed triumphantly at this admission. "What took yu that way?" he asked.
"It's part of our range," the puncher pointed out. "Didn't know the old chap was located there till I happened on him. He was alive an' kickin' when I left."
The marshal's face shot forward, an ugly grin on his bloodless lips. "Yu said it," he sneered. "A fella would be apt to kick if he was slung into the Sluice."
A threatening growl from some of the auditors greeted this; Sudden stared in bewilderment at the speaker.
"Yu suggestin' I throwed the old man in the river?" he cried. "Yu must be drunk or dreamin'."
"Don't think it; I'm sayin' that's just what yu did do," the officer retorted. "An' then yu went back an' stole his dust."
The accused man glanced round the room and despite the black looks he met with, laughed scornfully.
"Someone's been stringin' yu, Slype," he said. "Yu got the story all wrong."
"I wasn't just expectin' yu to own up," the marshal said with heavy sarcasm. "As for stringin', I had it from Riley o' the Circle B, who chanced to be on the other side o' the river, an' saw the whole affair."
The name told the puncher much of what he wanted to know. "Yeah," he commented reflectively. "Wasn't it Riley who claimed he saw Luce tryin' to bump me off?" And when Slype nodded. "Useful fella that--reg'lar johnnyon-the-spot, ain't he? The Circle B shore oughta pay him well."
The marshal made no attempt to reply, but another did. Heaving his big bulk out of his chair, Mart Burdette thrust forward an ugly, threatening face and said with savage intensity.
"Meanin'?"
The foreman was now sure that the whole scene had been pre-arranged, but it made no difference to his attitude.
"That Riley is a liar, an' that yu an yore brothers know it," he said deliberately.
This was fighting talk; every man there knew it, and wondered when he saw that Mart was not wearing his belt. A Black Burdette without a gun was a sight no one of them could remember. Sudden's keen eyes had noted the omission as soon as the fellow stood up, and sensed its significance. There was an evil satisfaction in the big man's gaze as he replied to the puncher's accusation.
"Fella with a gun can allus talk biggity to the chap what ain't wearin' his," he sneered. "If yu got the guts to shuck that belt, I'll kill yu with my bare hands."
He spread the fingers of his great paws as he spoke, opening and closing them with a slow, gripping motion horribly suggestive of his purpose. His leering look of savage anticipation told that this was what he had been hoping for. The challenge was one the cow-puncher could not decline, and he had no thought of it. The Burdettes had "framed" him, and he must go through with it. He smiled grimly at the thought that he had taught them to respect his gun-play.
"Forgot to put yore belt on, huh?" he said acidly. "Or mebbe yu remembered not to put it on. Anyways, yu played it safe."
By this time games were forgotten, and the players were congregated in a circle round the two men. Willing hands pushed tables and chairs out of the way until a space was cleared for the contest. Excited voices offered and accepted bets and wrangled over the merits of the combatants. Most of those present favoured the bigger man, who was deemed the best rough-and-tumble fighter in that part of the country, and certainly the huge mass of him and the bulging muscles of his mighty limbs suggested that they were right. But a few studied the other with appraising eyes, noted the lean, wiry frame, remembered the swift, pantherish action of his body, and divined the steely sinews which rippled beneath his skin at every movement.
"He's fit from the toes up--all bone an' gristle--an' Mart is too fat," Weldon, the blacksmith, remarked. "Green looks like he's fought afore too. I'll take twenty to ten about him."