"But, Roger," the girl faltered, "won't that mean--mean----"

"A show-down? Maybe so. I ain't side-steppin' it."

A world of worry showed in the girl's eyes. "Roger, why don't you go away?" she asked hesitatingly. "Things could be worse, and maybe in time they would become better. Folks forget, Roger."

For a moment Rathburn's hand rested on hers, as he looked down at her.

"There's two ways of forgettin', girlie," he said soberly. "An' I don't want 'em to forget me the wrong way."

"But, Roger, promise me you won't--won't--turn your gun against a man, Roger. It would make things so much worse. It would leave--nothing now. Don't you see? It takes courage to avoid what seems to be the inevitable. That terrible skill which is yours, the trick in this hand on mine, is your worst enemy. Oh, Roger, if you'd never learned to throw a gun!"

"It isn't that," he told her gently. "It isn't what you think at all.

I'd rather cut off that right hand than have it raised unfairly against a single living thing. They call me a gunman, girlie, an' I reckon I am. But I'm not a killer. There's a difference between the two, an' sometimes I think it's that difference that's makin' all the trouble. I'm still tryin' to steer by that thing you call the compa.s.s, an' that's why I've got to go to town."

He stepped away from her, waved a farewell to Mallory, who was watching the scene with a puzzled expression, and ran for his horse. A minute later the ringing hoof beats of his mount were dying in the still night.

Laura Mallory swayed, and her father hurried to her with the lamp and put his arm about her.

"What's it all about, sweetie?" he asked complainingly.

"Nothing, daddy, nothing--only I love him."

A puff of wind blew out the light in the lamp, and father and daughter stood with arms about each other under the dancing stars.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE SHERIFF'S PLIGHT

Riding slowly Rathburn kept well in toward the range and proceeded cautiously. This wasn't alone a safety measure, for he wished to favor his horse. The dun had been hard ridden in the spurt to gain the mountains ahead of the posse. He had been rested at Price's cabin, to be sure, and also at the Mallory ranch; but now Rathburn had a ride of fifteen miles to the town of Hope, and he did not know how much riding he might have to do next day.

When a scant three miles from Hope, he halted, loosened the saddle cinch, and rested his horse, while he himself reclined on the ground and smoked innumerable cigarettes. He was in a thoughtful mood, serious and somewhat puzzled. The recollection of Eagen's proposition caused him to frown frequently. Then a wistful light would glow in his eyes, and he thought of Laura Mallory. This would be succeeded by another frown, and then his eyes would narrow, and the smile that men had come to fear would tremble on his lips.

He was again in the saddle with the first faint glimmer of the approaching dawn. He covered the distance into Hope at a swinging lope and rode in behind a row of neat, yellow-brick buildings which formed the east side of one block on the short main street.

Securing his horse behind a building midway of the rear of the block, he entered one of the buildings through a back door. It proved to be a combination pool room and soft-drink bar. No one was in the place except the porter who was cleaning up. Rathburn noted that the man showed no evidences of knowing him, although this was Rathburn's home town.

"Kind of early, ain't you, boss?" grinned the porter. "Maybe you're lookin' for something to start the day with." He winked broadly.

Rathburn nodded and walked over to the bar.

"Just get in?" asked the porter, as he put out a bottle of white liquor and glanced at the dust on Rathburn's clothes.

"Just in," replied Rathburn, pouring and tossing off one drink.

"Where's everybody? Too early for 'em?"

"Well, it's about an hour too early on the average, unless there's been an all-night game," replied the porter, putting the bottle away, as his customer declined a second drink. "But then there ain't very many in town right now. Everybody's out after the reward money."

Rathburn lifted his brows.

"Say," exclaimed the porter eagerly, "you didn't see any men ridin'

looselike, when you was coming in, did you?"

Rathburn shook his head. "What's all this you're tryin' to chirp into my ear?" he asked.

"Well, Bob Long, the sheriff, has got all his deputies out except just the jailer--there ain't anybody much in jail now, anyway--an' all the other men he could pin a star on, lookin' for a gang that held up the stage from Sunshine yesterday mornin', shot the stage driver dead, an'

made off with an express package full of money. There's a big reward out for the man that's leadin' the gang. He's called The Coyote. Used to live here. He's a bad one."

"Sheriff out, too?" Rathburn asked, showing great interest.

"Sure. Come back in early last night an' got more men. They're tryin'

to surround Imagination Range, I guess. That's where this Coyote an'

his gang are supposed to be hanging out. The sheriff don't care so much for the fellers that's with him, I guess, but he sure does want this Coyote person. He told everybody to let the gang go if they had to, but to get the leader."

Rathburn looked through the front windows with a quizzical smile on his lips. The sun was shining in the deserted street.

"How many men has the sheriff got?" he inquired casually.

"Most two hundred, I guess. They're scattered all over the range, an'

a lot of 'em has. .h.i.t over on the other side. They think The Coyote crossed the range an' is makin' east."

"Well, maybe he has, an' maybe he hasn't," Rathburn observed. "The best place to hide from a posse is in the middle of it."

The porter looked at him, then burst into a loud laugh. "I guess you said something that time, pardner. In the middle of it, eh?" He went about his work, chuckling, while Rathburn walked to a front window and stood looking out.

A few minutes later he stepped quickly back into a corner, as a small automobile raced up the street. He sauntered to the rear door, pa.s.sed out with a pleasant word to the porter, and when he gained the open, hurried up behind the buildings the length of the block. There he turned to the left and walked rapidly to a large stone building. He went around on the east side and entered a door on the ground floor.

He found himself in a hallway, and on his left was a door, on the glazed gla.s.s of the upper half of which was the gold lettering: "Sheriff's Office."

After a moment's hesitation he opened the door quickly and went in. A man standing before an open roll-top desk turned and regarded the early-morning visitor. He was a small man, but of wiry build. His eyes were gray, and he wore a small, brown mustache. He had a firm chin, and his face was well tanned. He was holding a paper in his hands, and the paper remained as steady as a rock in his grasp. His eyes bored straight and unflinchingly into Rathburn's. He showed no surprise, no concern. He made no move toward the pair of guns in the holsters of the belt which reposed on top of his desk. He spoke first.

"Have you come to give yourself up, Rathburn?"

"Hardly that, sheriff," replied Rathburn cheerfully. "I arrived in town this morning after most of the population had moved to the desert and the country aroun' Imagination. I didn't think I was goin' to be lucky enough to catch you in till I saw you arrive in that flivver.

Are you back for more recruits?"

The sheriff continued to hold the paper without moving.

"When you first started to talk, Rathburn, I thought maybe bravado had brought you here to make a grand-stand play," he said coolly. "But I see you're not as foolhardy as some might think. I always gave you credit for being clever."

"Thanks, Sheriff Long," said Rathburn dryly. "There's a few preliminaries we've got to get over, so----"

His gun leaped into his hand and instantly covered the official. He stepped to the end of the desk, reached over and appropriated the belt with the two guns with his left hand. He tossed the belt and weapons to a vacant chair.

"Now, sheriff, I didn't come lookin' for a cell like you hinted; I drifted in for a bit of information."

"This is headquarters for that article, especially if it's about yourself," said Long, dropping the paper on his desk and sitting down in the chair before it.