On Tuesday morning, after I headed Jim for Holy Cross, I had to stay over in Lordsburgh, finish my horse deal with the Lawson Cattle Company, then get my men back to Grave City by the evening train. I had only three cowboys, Monte, Custer, and Ute; nice children, too, when they were all asleep, but fresh that morning, full of dumb yearnings for trouble, and showing plentiful symptoms of being young. At breakfast-time I pointed out some items in the local scenery, a doctor's shambles, a hospital, a mortuary, and an adjacent graveyard.

"Now, you kids," says I, "you may be heap big tigers; but don't you get wild-catting around too numerous, because I ain't aiming to waste good money on yo' funerals."

They said they'd be fearful good, and might they have ten dollars apiece for the church offertory? They set off with three pure hearts, and thirty dollars.

Now I reckon there were twenty-five Flying W. riders owning the town that day, and they began politely by asking my boys if Chalkeye's squint was contagious, and whether that accounted for symptoms of mange in his ponies.

My boys were dead gentle, and softly answered that Lawson was the worst horse-thief in Arizona; that Lawson's foreman was three-parts negro and the rest polecat, and that Lawson's riders had red streaks around their poor throats because the hang-rope had failed to do them justice.

The Flying W. inquired if my three riders was a case of triplets, or only an unfortunate mistake. Then my boys produced their six-guns and allowed they'd been whelped savage, raised dangerous, and turned loose hostile—and I only arrived just in time to save them from being spoiled for further use on earth. I challenged the Flying W. to race their best pets against my "mangy" ponies, and both sides agreed to have a drink with me, instead of wasting mounted funeral pageants on such a one-horse town as little Lordsburgh.

So while I was playing nursemaid, herding all those kids, who should roll up the street but young Onate, of Holy Cross, on the dead run with a letter from Jim. The more kids, the worse trouble. Well, when I had swallowed Jim's letter, I fired off a batch of telegrams and soon had a wire back from the Albuquerque sheriff. "Will impound them cattle," says he, "pending advices from Bryant." So I sent Onate streaking after Bryant, and went on playing at nursemaid until I was plumb scared that I'd be sprouting a cap of ribbons. Anyway, I didn't have time to think until the evening train pulled into Grave City. By that time my three babies were dancing a fandango upon the roof of the car. When the train stopped I hauled them down by the legs, petted them some with my boot, and told them to go away home. They went, with a bet between them, which would be first at my ranch.

Just for the sake of peace and quietness I stayed that night in Grave City, and sat around next morning smoking long cigars while I made my poor brain think. There were points in Jim's letter, and facts I had picked up casual at Lordsburgh, and words of gossip dropped in the hotel; but to put them all together would have puzzled a large-sized judge. Still, by all the tracks, the signs, the signals, and the little smells, I reckoned that Mr. Ryan was mighty near reaching a crisis, and apt to break out sudden as dynamite. First, here was Sheriff Bryant with two deputies, his wife, and a medicine-man, camped down at Holy Cross. Now Bryant would scarcely take deputy-sheriffs down there to nurse a sick lady. Had Holy Cross been seized at last for Balshannon's debts? That smelt of Ryan.

Secondly, Jim had gone to heaps of trouble gathering all the breeding-stock of Holy Cross, for a party named Jabez Y. Stone to steal them convenient. Jabez Y. had once been a bar-tender in Ryan's hotel—so that smelt of Ryan, too.

Thirdly, here was poor Balshannon being held with a string round his leg at the Sepulchre saloon, by the two crookedest gamblers in Arizona, the same being Low-Lived Joe and Louisiana Pete. Once, Joe, being gaoled for killing a Mexican, Ryan had put up money for a lawyer to get him released. So if these two thugs were instructed to hold and skin the Dook, that likewise smelt strong of Ryan.

Fourthly, here was young Michael Ryan in his private car from New York, burning the rails to reach Grave City by ten o'clock this night. The smell of Ryan surely tainted the whole landscape. Now just throw back to the words of Ryan's letter which fourteen long years before he had nailed upon the door of Holy Cross:—

"The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and son turned out to die in the desert, you will beg for even so much as a drink of water, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I have seen the end of your accursed house."

So this was Ryan's plan—the work of fourteen years; industrious a whole lot, and plenty treacherous, but coming surely true. He had waited until he knew the lady was mostly dead, then turned her out of Holy Cross to die in the desert. The cattle were stolen, Balshannon was tied down for slaughter, and Michael would come to see the finish at ten o'clock to-night.

I began to reckon up Balshannon's friends, cowboys and robbers mostly, scattered anyway across the big range of the desert. They would not hear me if I howled for help.

But Ryan was respectable. He was Chairman of the Committee of Public Safety which lynched bad men when they became too prevalent with their guns. Ryan was our leading citizen, heaps rich, and virtuous no end. The Law would side with him, and as to the officers of the law, judges, and City Marshal, and the police—they'd got elected because he spoke for them. He owned the city, could bring out hundreds of men to take his side. What could I do against this Ryan's friends?

I knew that young Curly was hid in Grave City somewheres, and after a search I found him. The boy was so disguised he hardly knew himself.

"Chalkeye," says he, "you want a talk?" He looked sort of scared and anxious.

"I do."

"If Ryan's folk see you making talk with me, they'll think there's some new plot against the white men. Just you watch where I go, and follow casual."

He led me to a little room he rented over a barber's shop, and looking from the window I noticed that Ryan's hotel was just across the street. Curly left the room door open, because he didn't want any spy to use the keyhole.

"Now," says he, "make yo' voice tame, or we'll be overheard. Don't show yo'self off at that window, but keep your eyes skinned thar, while I watch the stairs. What is yo' trouble?"

"Whar are yo' range wolves?"

"They're a whole lot absent," says Curly.

"Cayn't you trust me?"

"I ain't trusting even myself." He looked fearful worried.

"You know that Ryan has seized Holy Cross?"

"This mawning, yes."

"And that Ryan has stolen all their breeding-stock?"

"Yesterday that was."

"And that yo' father dressed himself up as a preacher, and warned Jim?"

"They met up five mile south of Lordsburgh. Yessir."

"And that Balshannon is tied up here?"

"To be butchered this evening. Well?"

"Curly, I want the range wolves to save Balshannon."

"The range wolves has another engagement, seh."

"You know all about this, Curly! Cayn't you trust me to help?"

"We want no help, I reckon."

I turned my tongue loose then, and surely burned young Curly.

"Don't talk so loud, ole Chalkeye, but say some more!" he laughed. "I could set around to listen to you all day. Turn yo' wolf loose, for it's shorely yo' time to howl."

That dried me up cold and sudden, for I had been acting youthful, and Curly had got responsible, maybe elderly with me, the same being ridiculous seeing how small the boy was.

"Yo're through with yo' prayers, Chalkeye? Some comforted, eh? You ole ring-tailed snorter, cayn't you understand? We ain't going to have you mixed up with us range wolves, and branded for an outlaw. We want you to keep good, and be a whole lot respectable right along. Then you can stay around in this man's town, walk in the open with a proud tail, and show the Ryan outfit that Balshannon has one friend who ain't no robber."

Then I understood.

"Now," says Curly, "hear my lil' voice, for I'm goin' to prophesy. You know that Ryan reckons to have young Michael here for Balshannon's funeral? Suppose this Michael don't transpire to-night? Suppose the train comes in with news of a horrible shocking outrage? Suppose them mean, or'nary robbers has stole a millionaire? Suppose—well, just you wait for Ryan's yell when he hears what's done happened to his petted offspring. He'll surely forget there's any Balshannon to kill. Just you wait peaceful, and when the town turns out to rescue that poor stolen maverick you want to ride in and collect Balshannon."

Opposite in the hotel piazza I watched old Ryan and the City Marshal having a mint julep together at one of the tables.

"You hear that hawss?" says Curly, and far off I heard a horse come thundering. Soon the rider swung into sight, pitching the dust high, until he came abreast of my window, and saw the City Marshal in the piazza.

"Marshal," I heard him calling, "the wire to Bisley has been cut."

"Is that so?"

"The City Marshal at Bisley wants your help."

"What's the trouble?"

"You Ryan, your partner Jim Fiskin has been held up on the Mule Pass by robbers. Marshal, the message is for you to bring a posse swift to the nigh end of the pass, so as the Bisley people can drive the robbers under your guns."

"Good," says the Marshal, belting up his gun, "I'll be thar."

"It would be an awful pity," says Curly behind my shoulder, "if our City Marshal and his posse of men got called away on a false scent, while the wicked robbers up north were stealing a millionaire."

That youngster was wiser than me.