AN HOUR later, when Barry was sure his mother was sleeping, he saddled up and rode to Mescal. He was not looking for trouble, but it was necessary to show Moley and Hodge that their threats did not worry him. Also he was anxious to secure a cowhand or two in order that his mother might not be left alone at the Flying W. Chet Lewis had disappeared, but he might return to the ranch during Barry’s absence; and while Weston did not anticipate any physical violence on his part, a drunken quarrel might easily undo all he had accomplished toward the restoration of his mother’s health.
He dismounted at the Palace and went inside. The place was crowded, with a long line of men ranged before the fifty-foot bar and dense groups surrounding the gaming tables. Barry spotted the two punchers from the Cinchbuckle whose conversation the day before had warned him of Clay Dawn’s presence in town, and succeeded in reaching a place beside them. Evidently their determination to make the most of their day off had been realized; they seemed rather the worse for wear, but were still going strong.
He thought to pick up some information about conditions on the Cinchbuckle, but their minds seemed be on other things, and their conversation was a muddle of horses, guns, and the girls they had known their ramblings about the country. Quite suddenly they put their heads together and lifted their somewhat raucous voices in song:
“Nip,” said one of them, “you’re off key. That there ‘Idaho’ sounded like a coyote wailin’ at the October moon.”
“Tuck, you’re a heap better judge of liquor than you are of music,” replied the one called Nip. “It was you that was off. If you don’t believe me, take a look Ace Polmateer glarin’ at you.”
“Glarin’ at who?” demanded Tuck belligerently. “He’d better not be glarin’ at me. By jacks, I never did like the dude. If he glares at me I’ll walk over there and sock him on the nose.”
“No you won’t. That there’s a pleasure I been reservin’ for myself. You stay here; I’ll go over and sock him.”
“Sa-a-y, who was he glarin’ at, anyhow?”
“You. But you’re friend of mine, ain’tcha? Think I’m gain’ to stand by and let my friends git glared at? Well, I should shay not!”
“Tuck, I got it! We’ll both go over and sock him!”
“Two of us to that shorthorn? Nip, I’m su’prised at you!”
The ensuing argument was drowned out by a sudden burst of music. Barry saw that the end of the room had been cleared and was now occupied by half a dozen beribboned and painted damsels who swayed in unison and bawled the words of a popular ballad with voices which made up in strength what they lacked in culture.
Barry turned his back to the bar, and, resting his elbows on its surface, surveyed them. The girl, Lola, stood out like a rose in a patch of rag weed. She was watching him as she sang. Presently the music ended, and the girls broke formation and scattered about the room. Lola came directly towards Barry, seeming to glide rather than to walk, her soft eyes fixed on his face, the hint of a smile on the red lips. She halted before him and put a small brown hand on his arm. The pianist was thumping out a waltz.
“Well the tall señor dance weeth Lola?” she asked softly.
Barry grinned down at her. “Lady, I’m light enough on my own feet, but I’m sure heavy on my partner’s.”
The girl pouted. “I am sure you are not tell the trut’. Come; eet ees not often that Lola mus’ beg for the dance.”
Barry reached into a pocket and drew forth a dollar. “I’m all out of practice, and I sure would hate to spoil your good opinion of me. Here’s a dollar; spend it to celebrate your lucky escape.”
She pressed the money firmly back into his hand. “I weel not accep’ eef you do not dance. Lola ees not that cheap.”
The cowboy, Nip, spoke up. “Señorita, I’m some hoofer myself. How about takin’ me on for a fall?”
“No. Eef I do not dance weeth the tall señor, I’m dance weeth nobody.”
She moved to a vacant table and threw herself sulkily into a chair. Ace Palmateer went over to her and spoke in a low tone, but she answered him so fiercely that he shrugged and turned away.
“Some li’l spit-devil,” commented Nip admiringly.
Tuck answered. “Ain’t she, though? Stranger, you sure chucked old man Opportunity plumb out the back door. They’s fellas in this room that would give a eye tooth for one dance with that chiquita.”
“That’s right,” agreed Nip. “Lola’s been twinin’ ’em all around her finger. Even Steve Moley neck reins and single-foots when she whistles.”
“There’s another jigger I’d like to take a poke at,” said Tuck. “He gives me a heap big pain in the k-neck.”
“Keep your big mouth shut,” warned Nip. “You’re drunk.”
“Sez you! When I’m drunk I can’t sing worth shucks; and I sure can sing. Le’s try that second verse.” Heads together, they bellowed another stanza of their song:
Through the swinging front doors came Steve Moley and the two men who had been in the poker game with him and young Dawn. Barry was still standing with his back to the bar, and at sight of him Steve frowned and stopped suddenly, then resumed his way, the other two at his heels. Steve dropped into a chair facing Lola. His companions continued to the end of the bar, where they ranged themselves facing Ace Palmateer and ordered drinks. Barry slowly rolled a cigarette. Steve was talking earnestly to Lola, who watched him with sullen eyes. Presently he got up and moved away, and the girl joined the other entertainers on the platform to render another song.
This time when the girls separated, she came direct to Nip, who, like Barry, had turned his back to the bar. She smiled at him.
“You lak to dance weeth Lola, No?”
Nip nearly fainted. “Like to! Lady, I’d give both legs and a arm— Tuck, is this a dream?”
“I have a feelin’ it’s gain’ to be a nightmare.”
The piano was going. “Come,” said Lola coaxingly.
“Whoop-ee!” yelled Nip, and seized her.
“Look at him,” said Tuck disgustedly. “He don’t know a fandango from a full house! Why, he’ll tromp that li’l girl to death. Why didn’t she take me instead of him?”
The music finally ceased, and a beaming Nip escorted Lola to the bar for the customary drink. Barry moved slightly to make room for her. She stepped on the rail and called her order; then, glancing about quickly, she spoke from the corner of her mouth.
“Watch good w’en you leave, Señor Tall One. There are two who wait outside.”
Instantly she had turned and was laughing at something Nip had said; nor did she pay Barry any further attention. Weston ordered a bottle of beer and drank it slowly, his eyes traveling over the face of the big mirror behind the bar. Ace Polmateer still stood at the far end of the counter, but the two who had entered with Steve were not in sight. Moley was standing at a faro layout watching the play.
Finishing his drink, Barry turned and looked carefully over the assemblage. There was no doubt about it; the two had vanished. The sheriff had come in, and Ace Polmateer was talking to one of his bouncers. Barry felt a little thrill of anticipation. The stage was set. He would walk out, there would be an exchange of shots, and, if they killed him, one would swear it was self-defense on the part of his companion. If he got his man, there would be a witness to testify that he started the fight.
He was seeking the best way out of the situation when four more men entered the saloon. Barry did not know them, but their leader was tall and lean and saturnine, and carried his gun in a tied-down holster. The group halted just inside the doorway and looked over the crowd; then one of them nudged the tall one and nodded towards Nip and Tuck. Instantly the whole group moved up to the bar, halting directly behind the two cowboys.
“I been lookin’ for you two fellers,” said the tall one.
Nip and Tuck slowly turned. The former spoke coldly.
“Well, it looks like you’ve found us.”
“It sure does. I have somethin’ nice to tell you. You’re fired—both of you. You’ve carried this thing too far. You were due back at the ranch this mornin’. Ride out and get your warbags and your time, then you’re through.”
“Not on your say-so,” scoffed Nip. “Miss Barbara hired us, Ike Wetmiller; she’ll do any firin’ that’s to be done.”
“She has. I took it up with her before I rode in.”
For a moment the two stood glaring at the Cinch-buckle foreman, but Wetmiller had the advantage of numbers and position. Nip gave a final glare and turned back to the bar; Tuck followed his example. W etmiller and company backed through the dorway to the street. They were taking no chances. Lola discreetly slipped away.
Barry glanced at Nip’s face. The cowboy’s mouth was set and his eyes glinted with anger. Tuck was talking to him.
“We mighta knowed it. Part of the game, Nip. One by one the old hands are fired or killed off until only me and you are left. Wetmiller’s been waitin’ for an excuse to fire us, and we, like clanged fools, gave it to him.”
Barry signaled the bartender and ordered him to fill their glasses; then, as they turned frowningly on him, he explained quietly.
“I’m Barry Weston of the Flyin’ W. I fired the only two hands on the spread and I’m honin’ to get hold of two good ones to replace them. You boys suit me from the ground up. How about it?”
They exchanged glances. “What’s your proposition?” asked Tuck.
“Regular cowhand wages and a chance for some excitement. I’ve been warned out of town, and right now two men are layin’ for me outside the Palace.”
The smiles were replaced by grins of anticipation. Again they looked at each other.
“Suits me,” said Nip.
“Me too,” said Tuck.
“You’re hired. Now listen. I just overheard you say that the Cinchbuckle is gettin’ rid of its old hands. How come?”
“Well,” said Nip slowly, “we ain’t much on carryin’ news; but you’re our boss now, and I reckon you’ll do to ride the river with. It’s true. For the past year Wet-miller’s been weedin’ us out on one excuse or another. He’s got Miss Barbara buffaloed; she thinks him jest about the best cowman that’s stepped along the pike.”
“Is he?”
“Shucks! I’ve forgot more about cows than he ever knowed; but he’s a driver, and he has been ridin’ night and day tryin’ to cut down rustlin’. She’s found him on that south line at noon and at two in the mornin’. She ain’t happened on him when he’s sleepin’ his head off under a tree.”
“And how about this rustlin’?”
“Boss, you got me. Stuff keeps slippin’ away, a few at a time. Breeders. Sure is raisin’ Cain with the calf roundup.... About these fellas that are layin for you; sure there are only two of ’em?”
“That’s all. They came in with Steve Moley.”
“Hop Finch and Pug Parsons. You leave ’em to us. When you hear us sing, you come out.” Before Barry could question or object they had stepped away from the bar, and, staggering slightly, made for the doorway. Barry glanced at Ace Palmateer. He seemed relieved at their passing.
Barry seated himself in a chair near the door and tilted it against the wall. Five minutes passed—ten; then faintly to him came the words of another verse of their seemingly endless song:
Barry got up, stretched, and turned through the swinging half doors. He had the strange feeling of expectant eyes fastened on his back. Stepping quickly to one side of the doorway, he dropped his hand to his gun and peered about him through the darkness. Nip and Tuck had told him to come out; just what he was expected to do he did not know. Two figures detached themselves from the shadows across the street and came towards him, lurching slightly. Nip and Tuck.
“Mount up and ride,” said Nip, “The road is clear.” He picked up the reins and climbed to the back of a stocky bay. Tuck mounted a roan, and Barry, pulling the slipknot in his own rein, vaulted to the saddle. They pulled away from the rack and rode out of town.
“If I’m not too curious,” said Barry, “what became of Hop and Pug?”
“They’re layin’ on their backs meditatin’,” answered Tuck. “And Hop is dryin’ out. He was hidin’ behind the waterin’ trough, and Parsons was around the saloon corner. Nip took care of him. I snuck up behind Hop and said ‘Boo!’ so sudden that he jumped three feet. I grabbed him by the slack of the pants and spilled him in the drink; then I yanked him out, stuck my persuader against his spine and made him walk to the calaboose. Sam had some rope in his office, so we wrapped ’em up good and stretched ’em out where he would be sure to fall over them.”
“Did they recognize you?”
“Sure. I even told Hop I hoped that cotton shirt he was wearin’ would shrink up enough to choke him.”
“I didn’t have no trouble with Pug,” grinned Nip. “I tickled him on the neck with my clasp knife and hissed in his ear: ‘Señor, mak won move an’ I’m cut out from you gizzard and peen heem behin’ you ears!’ He come right along.... Le’s sing, Tuck:
