Later, while the outlaw was watering and feeding his horse, he went over his talk with the girl. He knew from her last lie that she feared Spur and that for some reason all talk to strangers about her father’s death was taboo. He decided he would like to see that last note written by John Reed. The whole thing sounded natural enough, for two of the rustlers had been killed—yet he felt there was something wrong. He believed in Slivers, believed the boy had been framed by some one; and the fact that Spur Treadwell had taken trouble to fasten on Slivers this second killing and rustling went to prove that perhaps the boy was right in his belief that the big manager of the Double R was the one who had framed him. If he had not known Slivers, Allen would have unquestionably accepted, as others had apparently done, Spur Treadwell’s story of the killing of John Reed.

Two of the rustlers had been killed, and if a murder is committed and you produce the bodies of the murderers, people will usually accept your story and not inquire further. Allen told himself grimly, that he had known other men who had double crossed their tools. Perhaps these two rustlers knew too much, and Spur Treadwell had killed two birds with one stone, shut their mouths and got rid of John Reed.

“Shucks, it’s plumb easy to talk an’ figger out things for yourself, but it’s a cow of another color makin’ other folks see along with yuh. An’, Mr. Jim-twin Allen, if that there hombre, Spur, gets one little suspicion yuh’re snoopin’, you’ll take a ride one day an’ never come back,” he told himself seriously.

Later, Spur Treadwell turned Allen over to Bill McAllister, the boss horse wrangler, and told him to put the boy to work with the cavvy. The Double R was a large outfit and employed between twenty to forty men, depending on the season, so there were always two or three hundred horses in the cavvy.

Bill McAllister was a weather-beaten man of fifty. His lined and seamed face had been tanned by wind and sun to the color of leather. His grizzled hair was thin over his temples, and his blue eyes were faded. He was a taciturn man whose jaws got their exercise from chewing, not talking. His greeting to Allen was short but friendly enough.

The little outlaw decided McAllister was honest and could be trusted. This bothered him for a time. He could not see how McAllister could be honest and yet be a sort of foreman for Spur Treadwell; especially as the few punchers he had seen loafing about the ranch were obviously more used to handling their Colts than their ropes. Their smooth hands, free of callouses, marked them as gunmen rather than cow-punchers.

“I’m sure in luck to get a job like this,” Allen said, grinning. “I’ve worked aroun’ hosses since I was a kid, but I never been on such a big outfit as this before. Yep, I’m sure in luck.”

The old horse wrangler’s reply was only a grunt. Allen refused to be discouraged by this and continued to prattle like a schoolboy on vacation. Bill McAllister listened to him for a time in a disgruntled silence, but little by little his reserve fell away, and before he knew it, he was chuckling at the boy’s remarks and answering his apparently pointless question without reserve.

“I betcha when ol’ man Reed first come here he had to be right smart in watchin’ for Comanches,” Allen said.

“Yuh betcha! More than once I high-tailed into the corral one jump ahead of a dozen of them devils,” the old wrangler said reminiscently.

That settled one thing in Allen’s mind. Bill McAllister had worked for John Reed long before Spur Treadwell appeared on the scene. Spur Treadwell either did not find it necessary to fire him, or was afraid to do so for fear of comment.

“I betcha yuh have fights aplenty with rustlers,” Allen said and then added eagerly: “I’m goin’ to get me a gun so I can help fight them.”

“Son, don’t yuh do no such thing. Yuh’re a whole lot safer naked than if yuh packed a gun,” the old-timer warned.

“But suppose I met a rustler?” the boy insisted.

“I ain’t talkin’ about rustlers, but some of the gents what has come to work on this outfit since the or man died,” Bill McAllister said gruffly.

Allen allowed the subject to drop. He had learned enough for the present. The horse herd was pastured to the south of the ranch in a large meadow which was partly fenced in by dense thickets and partly by wire. Here he met “Maverick Ed” Stone, the other day herder.

Maverick was a lantern-jawed, stoop-shouldered, lanky man of forty, and Allen found him almost as taciturn as his boss. The herder’s job was an easy one. It consisted in riding along the boundaries of the meadow and watching to see that none of the horses escaped through the brush.

That night at chow, Allen glanced along the long table in the cookhouse at the score of punchers present. The riders were of all ages. The seven men who sat at the far end of the table were as different from the others as sheep from goats. They were quiet-spoken men and all wore their holsters tied down. The others were cow-punchers pure and simple, who, while they would all fight at the drop of a hat, were not professional fighters. To Allen these gunmen were one more point against Spur Treadwell. He knew they could be explained satisfactorily to others by the fact that the ranch was close to the Nations and that several raids had been made on the Double R stock. Every ranch in such a situation would keep a gang of fighters on its payrolls.

By keeping his ears open and asking a few judicious questions that night in the bunk house, Allen learned that the gunmen worked the northern end of the ranges, as this was considered the danger point. It was near the Hard Pan country which led to the Nations.

“That’s plumb natural, but if a gent was lootin’ the ranch, it would make it plumb easy,” he told himself.

Yet he was convinced that Spur Treadwell had a deeper game than the looting of the ranch. Sooner or later, Treadwell would be sure to be discovered if he tried that—yet it was hard for Allen to decide what his game was. It would take time to burrow deep enough to uncover the mystery and it might necessitate several trips into the Hard Pan country.

The little outlaw was talking, laughing, and adroitly questioning a short squat puncher named “Shorty” when two men entered the bunk house. Allen’s eyes flicked yellow for a moment as they rested on the newcomers, then he turned so that his back was against the light. He knew them, but would they remember him? If they did—— He worked the gun he wore in a shoulder holster a little more forward.

The bunk house was lined on either side with a double row of bunks, with wooden pegs on either side for the occupants’ clothing. The place was lighted by two big lamps, one at each end of the long room. Here, as in the cookhouse, there was the same sharply drawn demarcation between the gunmen and the cow-punchers.

The newcomers stalked down the room and took their places at the table at the farther end among their own kind.

Both were gunmen—killers. They were twins, “Sandy” and “Mac” McGill. There was Indian mixed with their Scotch blood. From the first they had inherited their killing propensity, from the second a cool, deadly nerve.

Mac had a scar on his left cheek, and it was only from this mark that one of the twins could be distinguished from the other. Both were of medium height, rather slender and wiry of build. Their eyes were like blue marbles, their hair sandy in color. Their faces were rather long, and their jaws heavy, which contrasted strangely with their thin and cruel mouths.

Covertly, from beneath the brim of his hat, Allen watched them while pretending to listen to a long-winded story by Shorty. If they recognized him, it would be the end, for no matter whether he won the gun fight or not, it would mean his quitting the ranch. Perhaps he could keep out of their way for a few days, but sooner or later, he would come face to face with them. As long as the crisis had to come, it might as well come that night. He would play his part—and the ragged boy from Fort Worth should not be found packing a gun in a shoulder holster. That was a risk he would have to take, for if he took off his gun and they recognized him, they would shoot him down like a dog.

A little later, he slipped out of the bunk house, unfastened his shoulder holster and gun, hid them beneath the bunk house, and then returned to the long room.

“Yuh was tellin’ me about this here Hard Pan country,” he said to Shorty, when he returned.

“Yeh, I was tellin’ yuh to stay clear of it ’cause it ain’t nothin’ but a lot of buttes with hard pan between them. Yuh can get lost there easy. Yuh could drive a hundred cows over this here hard pan and never leave no trail a-tall ’cause it’s just like stone. An’ there’s a thousan’ trails windin’ about in there. Some of ’em is blind ones an’ they twist about scandalously. Then, besides, ‘Boston Jack’ don’t like folks wanderin’ about the buttes.”

From the corner of his eye, Allen saw that both the McGills were watching him and whispering to each other. He saw them slowly arise to their feet and move toward him. Mac came directly toward him and Sandy circled the table to take him in the rear. It was coming.

“Who’s this here Boston Jack?” he asked, and there was no quiver in his voice—nothing to show that he knew he might be dead in sixty seconds. His voice was eager, curious.

“He’s the gent what bought the ol’ Double B Ranch after the bank foreclosed. It’s about twenty mile from here, tother side of the Hard Pan. He’s runnin’ hosses, but folks figger he’s runnin’ cows on the side—other folks’ cows—but they never can catch him.” The garrulous Shorty paused to yank off a chew from a piece of black plug.

“Stay put!” Mac snapped.

Shorty looked up, saw Mac with his gun out, and then promptly fell over sideways to be out of the way. At the same time Mac spoke, Allen’s arms were seized by Sandy from behind.

“I ain’t done nothin’,” Allen cried.

He struggled to his feet and tried to free himself from Sandy’s iron grip. As he struggled, he ducked his head to shield his face with his hat brim and blinked his eyes. He knew that they were what would be most likely to give him completely away.

“Dang yuh, I ain’t done nothin’, let me be!” he again cried in a perfect imitation of an angry boy.

“Stay still. What’s your name an’ where do yuh come from?” Mac asked coolly.

Allen felt Sandy’s hands exploring beneath his arms and every other place where it would be possible to conceal a gun.

“My name’s Ashton, from down Fort Worth way. Mr. McCann brought me out here,” he replied.

“Yuh know One-wing?” Mac asked sharply.

“Sure, I see them arrive together, an’ One-wing tol’ Spur he knew him,” one of the other gunmen volunteered.

“An’ he ain’t heeled,” Sandy announced.

“Guess we made a mistake—no wolf would travel without his teeth,” Mac smiled thinly.

Sandy released him, and Allen pretended to trip and fall to the floor. The shadows were deeper there.

“Who’d yuh think he was?” a gunman asked, as the two returned to their table.

“One of them Allen twins,” Mac replied shortly.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Shortly laughed. “That’s a hell of a joke on them—they took yuh for the Killer Wolf.”

“Dang fools,” Allen grumbled, as he arose to his feet and ruefully rubbed his arms where they had been seized by Sandy’s steellike fingers.

He grinned to himself. He had carried it off and besides he had learned one important thing. Every cow-puncher in the bunk house had cowered away from the killers except Maverick Ed Stone and two punchers by the names of “Flat-foot” and “Snoots” Stevens. At least he had learned that these three had nerve and were not friends of the McGills’. He was glad of this, for he felt that before many days passed, he would have need of men with nerve to help him.

Spur Treadwell looked through the bunk-house door and said shortly: “Time for yuh boys who is ridin’ to-night to get started.”

Several riders, among whom was Shorty, arose grumblingly to their feet and, taking coats and hats from pegs, went outside. Allen drifted out after them. He saw that four of the gunmen were also assigned to night herding.

“Where yuh goin’” he asked, as he watched Shorty and three other riders as they saddled their horses.

“The Double R cows is shrinkin’ like snowballs in hell—so a dozen of the boys is put ridin’ the range to keep the herd from shrinkin’ complete,” Shorty explained.

“Spur is sure gettin’ ready to go on the prod,” another rider said with a laugh.

“Yuh let me go with yuh?” Allen asked.

After a moment’s protest, Shorty agreed to allow the boy to accompany him. After Allen had retrieved his gun and shoulder holster, he saddled his gray and he and Shorty rode south from the ranch.

There was a quarter moon, and the whole plain was covered with a deceptive light.

“Why for don’t Spur go an’ talk personal with this Boston Jack?” Allen asked.

“He done it just after ol’ man Reed was downed, but didn’t find nothin’ a-tall. Boston just laughed at him—but one of his riders gets hot under the collar an’ talks war to Sandy McGill, who drops him pronto. Just the same, I’m plumb curious an’ I figger on amblin’ some night into the Hard Pan an’ havin’ a look. Spur puts them gunmen of hisn over that way—but I don’t trust them gents none a-tall!”

“Spur gets ’em after the old man is downed?” Allen asked.

“Naw, the old man gets ’em up from the border a couple of weeks afore he stops lead. Funny how he was wanderin’ about by hisself when he runs into them rustlers what downed him. Yep, it’s sure funny, ’cause I hears he hires them McGills as personal bodyguards. It would ’a’ been positively ludicrous if Spur hadn’t been there,” Shorty said reflectively.

“What yuh mean—Spur bein’ there?” Allen encouraged.

“’Cause I don’t trust them McGills a-tall. But Spur is white an’ ain’t the sort to have no truck with rustlers. Then, besides, he’s got money. An’ ain’t he goin’ to marry Dot Reed? So he ain’t goin’ to steal what will be hisn some day,” Shorty explained, as he deftly rolled a cigarette.

Their horses slid into a deep wash floored with boulders. After they had picked their way across and climbed the opposite bank, Allen started to ply Shorty with questions again.

“I hears Dot was goin’ to marry this Slivers person?” he said.

“Yeh, mebbe she was, but Slivers is wanted bad for two murders, among which is her old man, so I reckon she forgot him.”

“Mebbe she don’t believe he’s guilty,” Allen volunteered.

“Mebbe so. I sorta liked Slivers myself an’ never figgered him the sort of gent what would dry-gulch a man. Yeh, there’s somethin’ sorta funny about that too an’ I’m a-gettin’ plumb curious.”

Allen decided that Shorty was altogether too talkative for a man who had such a broad, curious streak. Under the present circumstances to have either was dangerous, but to have both was suicidal.