Jimmie Welsh threw his hand into the discard and grinned sheepishly.

“Yuh got me this time,” he said.

Billy Speaker, who held a full house, kings up, smiled pleasantly.

“I allow yuh’ll have to put yore gun in the next pot if you want to stick along,” he said. “An’ if yuh do I’ll win it off yuh and get away from here.”

“No,” said Jimmie regretfully, “if it was any other time I might resk it, but not now.”

Red Tarken, who had been shuffling the single greasy pack of cards, began to deal. In the game beside these three were two more sheepmen and another cattle-raiser.

The six sat in the shade of a huge bowlder that had broken off and rolled down the side of the red scoria butte. The game had been going on for hours, and captors and captives alike played with all the cowboys’ fervent love of gambling. Tarken, Speaker, and their companion 218 were free to move as they liked, but were on parole not to try to overpower their guardians.

Others of the eleven owners sat about in the shade of rocks, playing cards, or talking and doing their best to pass away the time. It was a strange gathering. Only one man remained sitting by himself with bent head and his hands bound behind him. This was Beef Bissell, the cattle-king, who had steadfastly refused to give his word to remain peaceable, and fumed his life away hour after hour with vain threats and recriminations.

At either end of the small inclosure that backed against the butte, two men with Winchesters in their hands bestrode motionless horses.

This perpetual guard, kept night and day, though invisible from all but one small point, was the only sign that there was anything but the kindliest relations among all the members of the party.

When the cowmen had found that no personal harm was to be done them, all but Bissell and one other had resigned themselves to making the best of a laughably humiliating situation. It was Billy Speaker himself who had suggested the idea of the paroles, and as Jimmie Welsh knew the 219 word of a Westerner was as good as his bond, the pact was soon consummated.

It was a remarkable formation in a desolate spot that the sheepmen had taken for a prison. It is a common fact that on many of these high buttes and mesas the pitiless weather of ages has chiseled figures, faces, and forms which, in their monstrous grotesquery, suggest the discarded clay modelings of a half-witted giant.

This place was a kind of indentation in the side of a precipitous butte, above which the cliff (if it may be so called) arched over part way like a canopy. The floor was of rock and lower than the plain, but over it were scattered huge blocks of stone that had fallen from above. Other stones had, in the course of time, made a sort of breastwork about this level flooring so that the retreat was both a refuge and a defense.

Better even than its construction was its situation. This particular spot was a corner of real “bad lands,” and lumpy ridges, hogbacks, and barren buttes arose on all sides like waves in a sea. So numerous were they that unless riders passed directly by the sheepmen’s hiding place the chances of discovery were almost nil. At one spot only was it visible, and that was a place where 220 the edges of two hogbacks failed to lap and hide it.

The sheepmen were aware of this, and their two guards were placed out of range of that single opening. The distance to it was almost half a mile.

The game of poker went on. Billy Speaker sat with his back to this opening, and after a while, in the natural progress of things, the sun crept over the top of the rock and smote him. It was a hot sun, although it was declining, and presently Billy gave warning that he was about to take off his coat.

When he did so without an alarming display of hidden weapons, the fancy suspenders he wore came in for considerable attention. Now cowmen or cowboys almost never wore braces; either their trousers were tight enough at the waist to stay up, or they wore a leather strap to hold them. Suspenders hampered an active man.

But Billy Speaker, who had originally come from Connecticut fifteen years ago, wore these braces and treasured them because his mother had given much light from her aging eyes and many stitches from her faltering needle to the embroidery that traveled up and down both shoulder straps. She had embroidered everything he could 221 wear time and again, and at last had fallen back on the braces as something new.

After free and highly critical comment regarding this particular aid to propriety, the game was permitted to go on. It happened to be Billy Speaker’s lucky day, and he had nearly cleaned the entire six of all their money and part of their outfits. In the exhilaration of raking in his gains he moved about really lively, forgetful of the brilliantly polished nickel-plated buckles that decorated his shoulder-blades and denoted the height to which his nether garment had been hoisted.

Out in the bad lands a troop of horsemen moved slowly forward, detached bodies scouring the innumerable hogbacks for signs of their prey. There were a few more than a hundred in this body, and it represented the pick of ten ranches. At the head of it rode a stolid, heavy-faced man, who appeared as though he were in constant need of a shave, and whose features just now were drawn down into a scowl of thought and perplexity.

This man’s body remained quite motionless as his horse plodded on with hanging head, but his small black eyes darted from side to side ceaselessly.

It was in one of these quick glances that he experienced 222 a blinding flash upon his retina. A second later it occurred again, and then a third time. Suspiciously the man drew his horse to a stand, and those behind him did likewise.

Stelton thought for a moment that there must have been an outbreak from the near-by Wind River or Shoshone Reservation, and that the Indians were heliographing to one another. Presently, in an open space between the edges of two buttes he caught the flash close to the ground.

It probably was a tin can left by a herder—they often flashed that way—but he would prove it before he went on. He took from their case the pair of field-glasses that swung from his shoulder and raised them to his eyes.

What he saw caused him to swear excitedly and order the company to back out of sight.

At the same instant Jimmie Welsh, holding a straight flush, looked up triumphantly at Billy Speaker who had just raised him. He looked over Billy’s shoulder and the smile froze on his face. He continued to look, and the cards dropped one by one out of his hand. Then his face became stern and he jumped to his feet.

“No more of this,” he ordered. “We’re discovered. You fellows get back out of sight,” he added to the cowmen. “Here, Harry, Bill, 223 Chuck, search these fellers again an’ see they ain’t got nothin’ in their shoes.”

“What ails yuh, Jimmie? Are yuh locoed?” asked a man who had not understood the sudden change in Welsh.

“I plenty wish I was,” came the reply, “but I ain’t. We’ve been discovered, an’ we’ve got to fight. I don’t know how many there was in the other party, but I ’low we ain’t in it noways. Red an’ Plug, you take yore horses round the butte to where the others are tethered, an’ help Jimmie and Newt bring in them casks o’ water. They ought to be back from the spring by this time. Tip, Lem, and Jack, help me put our friends here in the most-sheltered places.”

In a moment the camp that had been sleepy and placid was bustling with a silent, grim activity. From secret places men produced Winchesters, revolvers, and knives, if they carried them. In half an hour all the food had been brought in, and the casks of water laboriously filled at a brackish pool five miles away.

“That flush excited yuh so you seen a mirage, Jimmie,” bantered Speaker, whose ready wit and genial manner had won their way into the sheepman’s affection.

“I hope so,” was the curt response. But 224 Welsh had seen no mirage, and he was aware of the fact, knowing that a council of war was delaying the action of the other party.

His chief concern was the disposal of his prisoners. Excepting for the first line of breastworks, the only protection in the flat area of the camp was derived from the masses of stone that had fallen into it, and behind which one or two men could hide. At last it was decided that the prisoners, unarmed as they were, should lie down behind the wall out of danger’s way, while the sheepmen should take their chances behind the rocks. Another reason for this was, that it would never do to have the prisoners behind the men who were doing the fighting, ready to attack from the rear at first chance.

Each man had fifty rounds of ammunition, and was a fairly good shot, not, of course, equaling the cowboys in this respect. The prisoners had hardly been placed when, from behind a neighboring hogback, rode a man waving a white handkerchief.

Welsh stepped out of the camp and drove him back before he could talk, realizing the fellow’s clever idea of spying on the defenders’ position.

The cowboy had little to say except to demand the immediate surrender of the cattle-owners and 225 the delivery up to court martial of half the sheepmen. Jimmie laughed in the messenger’s face, and told him to tell whoever was boss of that outfit to come and take anything he wanted, and to come well heeled.

Then he went back to the rocky camp and stood his men up in a row.

“We got to keep our guests another week yet, boys,” he said. “Mr. Larkin won’t be up the range till that time, and our job is to keep them cowboys occupied so as to hold the range open for the sheep. Now anybody what don’t want to take chances with lead can go from here now and get hung by the punchers. If there’s many of ’em I allow we won’t see Montana ag’in till we’re angels; if there ain’t, they won’t see the Bar T. Now that’s the story. One other thing.

“Our guests are out in front. If yuh see any of ’em actin’ funny or tryin’ to get away, put a hole in ’em an’ end that right off. Hear that, boys?” he yelled to the cowmen who were on the ground behind the defense.

“Yep,” they shouted, and continued to chaff one another unmercifully in the greatest good-humor.

The old story states that the Spartans prepared for the battle of ThermopylÆ by oiling their bodies 226 and brushing their hair, much to the surprise of the Persians, who were forever wailing to their gods. This story has come down to us to illustrate solid, supreme courage in the face of certain death.

No less inspiring, though in a different way, was the preparation of Jimmie Welsh and his nine sheepmen. They cracked jokes on the situation, reminded one another of certain private weaknesses under fire, recalled famous range yarns, and enumerated the several hundred things that were going to happen to the enemy during the next few hours.

In all this banter the cowmen joined with their own well-flavored wit.

These facts have been given to show the natures of these men who made the West; who carved, unasked, an empire for the profit of us who live now, and who, in a space of less than forty years, practically passed from the face of the earth. Trained by their environment, they finally conquered it and left it to a more-civilized if softer generation.

At four o’clock of that afternoon came the first attack.

Stelton and his men were under a great disadvantage. In front of the sheepmen’s defense was 227 a little plain some three hundred yards across which was bare of any protection. The canopy of rock that overshadowed the camp prevented attack from above or behind. There was nothing for it but an onslaught in the face of a deadly fire.

Suddenly from around the butte that faced the camp poured the charge of the cowboys. Instantly they scattered wide, adopting the circling Indian mode of attack. On they raced to a distance of a hundred, then fifty yards.

Then, as though by preconcerted word, the Winchesters of both parties spoke, and the cowboys, turning at a sharp angle, galloped off out of range with one riderless horse, and two men, clinging, desperately wounded, to their pommels.

Jack Norton, one of the sheepmen, who had exposed himself for a better shot, dropped dead where he stood.

Now there was no word spoken. The helpless cowmen huddled against the wall while the hail of bullets swept over them in both directions, cursed softly to themselves, and smoked cigarettes. The punchers, having learned the lay of the land, drew off for consultation. Half of them were dispatched around the butte that protected the defenders and the plan of attack was changed. 228

On signal, the parties from both sides charged along the face of the butte toward each other, this movement being calculated to bring them out close to the enclosure without the danger of an attack in front, and at the same time give them the chance to fire upon the sheepmen from a destructive angle at either side.

The maneuver resulted in concentrating the fire within a zone of twenty-five yards, and it was fire so murderous that, before the cowboys could get out of range, ten were dead or wounded, while two of the sheepmen were killed outright and a third was disabled and rolled out into the sun to writhe in agony until his pal ran from cover and dragged him back.

The result was now a foregone conclusion, for the cowboys had solved the difficult problem of attack. Mushrooming out on either side at a distance of three hundred yards, they formed again in the shelter on either side and charged once more.

The wounded man, hearing the drumming of hoofs, seized his revolver, rolled out into the sun, and sat up on the ground. And from this position he emptied his gun at the yelling cowboys until another shot put him out of his misery.

More cowboys fell, and now, in front of the 229 stone breastworks, a dozen bodies lay, some twitching, and others still. The number of the defenders was reduced to five capable of holding and using a weapon, for such marksmen were the punchers that, if they did not kill outright, their bullets inflicted mortal wounds.

Jimmie Welsh was undisturbed and unhurt. He and Newt were sheltered behind one rock, while Tip and Lem defended another, and Chuck Durstine held a third by the side of his dead partner, Red. The fourth charge found them lying on the ground, contrary to their former practice of standing, and they escaped unhurt, although their ability to shoot the mounted punchers above the wall was not diminished. Again they wrought terrible havoc.

“I sure wish I could’ve cleaned up on that straight flush, Billy,” remarked Jimmie Welsh to Speaker.

“So do I, Jimmie,” returned the other; “yore bad luck was just breakin’. But, look here. Suppose you fellers quit this business now. I don’t relish yore all bein’ slaughtered this-a-way, and it’s shore a comin’ to yuh if yuh don’t quit.”

“Yuh talk like a Sunday-school class had stampeded on yuh, Billy. I’m surprised!” gibed 230 Welsh. “Mebbe yuh don’t like yore flowery bed of ease out there, what?”

“All horsin’ aside, I mean it,” insisted Speaker. “Yuh better quit now before they come ag’in.”

“Yeah, an’ get strung up to the nearest tree fer my pains, eh? Oh, no; I like this better; but, of course, if any o’ the boys—”

“Naw! What the deuce are yuh talkin’ about?” demanded an aggrieved voice, instantly joined by the other three.

“You’re wrong, Jimmie; of course, I don’t mean that. If yuh’ll quit I’ll see that yuh don’t get strung up.”

“You’re shore some friendly, Billy,” said Jimmie, shaking his head; “but I couldn’t never look my boss in the face if I even thought o’ quittin’. That ain’t what he pays me fer.”

“I’ll give yuh a job as foreman on the Circle Arrow. I see one of you hellions got my foreman; he’s layin’ out there kickin’ still. What d’ye say?”

“I’m plumb regretful, Billy,” returned Welsh, without hesitation; “but I can’t do it. Mebbe one o’ the boys—”

“Naw!” said the boys in unified contempt.

“Well, yuh pig-headed sons o’ misery, go on 231 an’ die, then!” cried Speaker, quite out of patience.

“Jest a minute an’ we’ll oblige yuh, Billy,” rejoined Welsh, as the dreaded drumming of hoofs foretold the next charge.

There was a tense moment of waiting, and then the fusillade began again, pitifully weak from the sheepmen. When the horsemen had whirled out of sight Lem and Newt lay groaning on the ground, while Tip O’Niell lay strangling in a torrent of blood that rushed from what had once been his face.

Welsh took one look at the tortured man, and with a crack over the head from the butt of his pistol, rendered him unconscious and stilled his blood-curdling agonies. Then he walked over to the cowmen.

“Anybody got the makin’s?” he asked. “One o’ them punchers spilt mine out o’ my pocket last time.”

Nonchalantly he showed the clean rent on the left side of his flannel shirt, just over his heart, where his pocket had been.

Somebody handed up the paper and tobacco, and he rolled a cigarette, tossing the materials back to Chuck Durstine, who sauntered up, examining his gun curiously. 232

Durstine, from his appearance, had no right to be alive. His cheek bled where a bullet had grazed him, his left arm was scratched, and there were three holes in his clothes. His revolver was so hot he could hardly hold it.

When they had finished their smoke they started back to their shelter, the middle rock of the enclosure.

“Well, good-by, boys,” said Jimmie. “I allow it’s pretty near my turn an’ Chuck’s.”

“Good-by!” came the chorus from the owners, all of whom had pleaded steadily with the two to give up the unequal struggle. These men were hard and brave men, and they appreciated genuine grit as nothing else in the world, for it was a great factor in their own make-up.

“I’ll tell yuh this, Jimmie,” called out Beef Bissell, whose conceptions had been undergoing a radical change for the last two hours, “if you an’ Chuck are sheepmen, I take off my hat to yuh, that’s all! I never seen better fighters anywhere.”

“Yuh ought to see us when we ain’t dry-nursin’ a dozen cattle-owners,” retorted Welsh, amid a great guffaw of laughter.

Suddenly again sounded the roar of the galloping horses. 233

“Well, so-long, boys!” yelled Chuck, his voice barely audible.

“So-long.”

The chorused response was cut short by the spitting of weapons. Chuck faced to the left, Welsh to the right. Both pumped two guns as fast as they could. Presently Chuck dropped one and leaned against the rock, his face distorted, but the other gun going. Jimmie felt a stab of fire, and found his weight all resting on one foot. Dropping their pistols, they drew others from holsters and fought on.

A bullet furrowed Chuck’s scalp, and the blood blinded him so that he could not shoot. He stepped out from behind the rock, “fanning” one gun and clearing his eyes with the other hand. Three bullets hit him at once, and he dropped dead, firing three shots before he reached the ground.

He had scarcely fallen when Welsh’s other leg and both arms were broken, and he tumbled in a heap just as the last of the charging cowboys swept past. When they had gone there was a moment’s silence. Then:

“Hello, anybody!” called Speaker.

There was a pause.

“Hello!” came a muffled voice. “Come 234 an’ git me. I cain’t fight no more.” And with a great shout the owner of the Circle Arrow outfit ran to where Jimmie Welsh, the indomitable, lay helpless, disabled by six bullets, but still full of fight.

“Stick me up on that wall, Billy,” he said faintly, “an’ put a gun in each hand. I can’t shoot ’em, but them punchers’ll think I can and finish me.”

“You go to Hell!” remarked Speaker joyfully.

“Don’t call yore ranch names,” admonished Jimmie with a grin, and fainted.