Well it was I had ample time to get on my guard! In wheeling my horse I booted him so hard that he reared. As I had been warm I had my sombrero over the pommel of the saddle. And when the head of my horse blocked any possible sight of movement of my hand, I pulled my gun and held it concealed under my sombrero. This rustler had bothered me in my calculations. And here he came galloping, alone. Exultation would have been involuntary then but for the sudden shock, and then the cold settling of temper, the breathless suspense. Snecker pulled his huge bay and pounded to halt abreast of me. Luck favored me. Had I ever had anything but luck in these dangerous deals?
Snecker seemed to fume; internally there was a volcano. His wide sombrero and bushy beard hid all of his face except his eyes, which were deepset furnaces. He, too, like his lieutenant, had been carried completely off balance by the strange message apparently from Sampson. It was Sampson's name that had fooled and decoyed these men. “Hey! You're the feller who jest left word fer some one at the Hope So?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, while with my left hand I patted the neck of my horse, holding him still.
“Sampson wants me bad, eh?”
“Reckon there's only one man who wants you more.”
Steadily, I met his piercing gaze. This was a rustler not to be long victim to any ruse. I waited in cold surety.
“You thet cowboy, Russ?” he asked.
“I was—and I'm not!” I replied significantly.
The violent start of this violent outlaw was a rippling jerk of passion. “What'n hell!” he ejaculated.
“Bill, you're easy.”
“Who're you?” he uttered hoarsely.
I watched Snecker with hawk-like keenness. “United States deputy marshal. Bill, you're under arrest!”
He roared a mad curse as his hand clapped down to his gun. Then I fired through my sombrero. Snecker's big horse plunged. The rustler fell back, and one of his legs pitched high as he slid off the lunging steed. His other foot caught in the stirrup. This fact terribly frightened the horse. He bolted, dragging the rustler for a dozen jumps. Then Snecker's foot slipped loose. He lay limp and still and shapeless in the road. I did not need to go back to look him over.
But to make assurance doubly sure, I dismounted, and went back to where he lay. My bullet had gone where it had been aimed. As I rode up into Sampson's court-yard and turned in to the porch I heard loud and angry voices. Sampson and Wright were quarrelling again. How my lucky star guided me! I had no plan of action, but my brain was equal to a hundred lightning-swift evolutions. The voices ceased. The men had heard the horse. Both of them came out on the porch. In an instant I was again the lolling impudent cowboy, half under the influence of liquor.
“It's only Russ and he's drunk,” said George Wright contemptuously.
“I heard horses trotting off there,” replied Sampson. “Maybe the girls are coming. I bet I teach them not to run off again—Hello, Russ.”
He looked haggard and thin, but seemed amiable enough. He was in his shirt-sleeves and he had come out with a gun in his hand. This he laid on a table near the wall. He wore no belt. I rode right up to the porch and, greeting them laconically, made a show of a somewhat tangle-footed cowboy dismounting. The moment I got off and straightened up, I asked no more. The game was mine. It was the great hour of my life and I met it as I had never met another. I looked and acted what I pretended to be, though a deep and intense passion, an almost ungovernable suspense, an icy sickening nausea abided with me. All I needed, all I wanted was to get Sampson and Wright together, or failing that, to maneuver into such position that I had any kind of a chance. Sampson's gun on the table made three distinct objects for me to watch and two of them could change position.
“What do you want here?” demanded Wright. He was red, bloated, thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty from drink, though sober on the moment, and he had the expression of a desperate man in his last stand. Itwas his last stand, though he was ignorant of that.
“Me—Say, Wright, I ain't fired yet,” I replied, in slow-rising resentment.
“Well, you're fired now,” he replied insolently.
“Who fires me, I'd like to know?” I walked up on the porch and I had a cigarette in one hand, a match in the other. I struck the match.
“I do,” said Wright.
I studied him with apparent amusement. It had taken only one glance around for me to divine that Sampson would enjoy any kind of a clash between Wright and me. “Huh! You fired me once before an' it didn't go, Wright. I reckon you don't stack up here as strong as you think.”
He was facing the porch, moody, preoccupied, somber, all the time. Only a little of his mind was concerned with me. Manifestly there were strong forces at work. Both men were strained to a last degree, and Wright could be made to break at almost a word. Sampson laughed mockingly at this sally of mine, and that stung Wright. He stopped his pacing and turned his handsome, fiery eyes on me. “Sampson, I won't stand this man's impudence.”
“Aw, Wright, cut that talk. I'm not impudent. Sampson knows I'm a good fellow, on the square, and I have you sized up about O.K.”
“All the same, Russ, you'd better dig out,” said Sampson. “Don't kick up any fuss. We're busy with deals to-day. And I expect visitors.”
“Sure. I won't stay around where I ain't wanted,” I replied. Then I lit my cigarette and did not move an inch out of my tracks.
Sampson sat in a chair near the door; the table upon which lay his gun stood between him and Wright. This position did not invite me to start anything. But the tension had begun to be felt. Sampson had his sharp gaze on me. “What'd you come for, anyway?” he asked suddenly.
“Well, I had some news I was asked to fetch in.”
“Get it out of you then.”
“See here now, Mr. Sampson, the fact is I'm a tender-hearted fellow. I hate to hurt people's feelin's. And if I was to spring this news in Mr. Wright's hearin', why, such a sensitive, high-tempered gentleman as he would go plumb off his nut.” Unconcealed sarcasm was the dominant note in that speech. Wright flared up, yet he was eagerly curious. Sampson, probably, thought I was only a little worse for drink, and but for the way I rubbed Wright he would not have tolerated me at all.
“What's this news? You needn't be afraid of my feelings,” said Wright.
“Ain't so sure of that,” I drawled. “It concerns the lady you're sweet on, an' the ranger you ain't sweet on.”
Sampson jumped up. “Russ, had Diane gone out to meet Steele?” he asked angrily.
“Sure she had,” I replied.
I thought Wright would choke. He was thick-necked anyway, and the gush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his shirt. Both men were excited now, moving about, beginning to rouse. I awaited my chance, patient, cold, all my feelings shut in the vise of my will.
“How do you know she met Steele?” demanded Sampson.