The sheriff flecked the ashes of his cigar into a blue flower pot which was gay with white ribbons, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"I hate to think that it is possible to find a whole ranch of h.e.l.lions from the owner down," he continued, "but the nature of the owner picks a dirty foreman, and a dirty foreman needs dirty men, and there you are.

That fits the case of the Gridiron Circle to a T. There was not one white man in the whole gang," and he sat in silence for a s.p.a.ce.

"Well, the boy, who was about fifteen years old by this time, took his gun and went out to find his daddy, and he succeeded. He cut him down and buried him and then went home. That night the shack burned to the ground, the orchard was ruined and the boy disappeared. Some people said that the kid took what he wanted and burned the house rather than to have it profaned as a range house by the curs who murdered his dad; and some said the other thing, but from what I know of the kid, I reckon he did it himself.

"Right there and then things began to happen that hurt the ease and safety of the Gridiron Circle. Cows were found dead all over the range--juglars cut in every case. Three of their punchers were found dead in one week--a .5O-caliber Sharps had done it. A regular reign of terror began and kept the outfit on the nervous jump all the time. They searched and trailed and searched and swore, and if one of them went off by himself he was usually ready to be buried. Ten experienced, old-time cowmen were made fools of by a fifteen-year-old kid, who was never seen by anybody that lived long enough to tell about it. When he got hungry, he just killed another cow and had a porterhouse steak cooked between two others over a good fire. He ate the middle steak, which had all the juices of the two burned ones, and threw the others away. Three meals a day for six months, and one cow to a meal, was the order of things on the ranges of the Gridiron Circle. He had plenty of ammunition, because every dead puncher was minus his belt when found and his guns were broken or gone; and early in the game the boy had made a master stroke: he raided the storehouse of the ranch one night and lugged away about five hundred rounds of ammunition in his saddle bags, with a couple of spare Colts and a repeating Winchester of the latest pattern, and he spoiled all the rest of the guns he could lay his hands on. Humorous kid, wasn't he, shooting up the ranch with its own guns and cartridges?

"Finally, however, after the news had spread, which it did real quick, a regular lynching party was arranged, and the U-B, which lay about sixty miles to the east, sent over half a dozen men to take a hand. Then the Gridiron Circle had a rest, but while the gang was hunting for him and laying all sorts of elaborate traps to catch him, the boy was over on the U-B, showing it how foolish it had been to take up another man's quarrel. By this time the whole country knew about it, and even some Eastern papers began to give it much attention. One of the punchers of the Gridiron Circle, when he found a friend dead and saw the tracks of the kid in the sand, swore and cried that it was 'that d----n Orphan'

who had done it, and the name stuck. He had become an outlaw and was legitimate prey for any man who had the chance and grit to turn the trick. For ten years he has been wandering all over the range like a hunted gray wolf, fighting for his life at every turn against all kinds of odds, both human and natural. And I reckon that explains why he is accused of doing so much killing. He has been hunted and forced to shoot to save his own life, and a gray wolf is a fighter when cornered. I know that I wouldn't give up the ghost if I could help it, and neither would anybody else."

"Oh, it is a shame, an awful shame!" cried Helen, tears of sympathy in her eyes. "How could they do it? I don't blame him, not a bit! He did right, terrible as it was! And only a boy when they began, too! Oh, it is awful, almost unbelievable!"

"Yes, it is, Sis," replied Shields earnestly. "It ain't his fault, not by any manner or means--he was warped." And then he added slowly: "But Tom and I will straighten him out, and if some folks hereabouts don't like it, they can sh.o.r.e lump it, or fight."

"Tell me how you met him, Jim," requested Blake in the interval of silence. "I've heard some of it, second-handed, or third-handed, but I'd like to have it straight."

"Well," the sheriff continued, "when he came to these parts I didn't know anything about him except what I had heard, which was only bad. He had a nasty way of handling his gun, a hair-trigger and a nervous finger on his gun, and he had a distressing way of using one cow to a meal, so I got busy. I didn't expect much trouble in getting him. I knew that he was only a youngster and I counted on my fifty years, and most of them of experience, getting him. Being young, I reckoned he would be foolhardy and hasty and uncertain in his wisdom; but, Lord! it was just like trying to catch a flea in the dark. He was here, there and everywhere. While I was down south hunting along his trail he would be up north objecting to the sheep industry in ingenious ways and varying his bill of fare with choice cuts of lamb and mutton. And by the time I got down south he would be--G.o.d only knows where, I didn't. I could only guess, and I guessed wrong until the last one. And then it was the toss of a coin that decided it.

"After a while he began to get more daring, and when I say more daring I mean an open game with no limit. He began to prove my ideas about his age making him reckless, though he was cautious enough, to be sure. One day, not long ago, he had a run-in with two sheepmen out by the U bend of the creek, who had driven their herds up on Cross Bar-8 land and over the dead-line established by the ranch. They must have taken him for some Cross Bar-8 puncher and thought he was going to kick up a fuss about the trespa.s.s, or else they recognized him. Anyway, when I got on the scene they were ready to be planted, which I did for them. Then I went after him on a plain trail north--and almost too plain to suit me, because it looked like it had been made plain as an invitation. He had picked out the softest ground and left plenty of good tracks. But I was some mad and didn't care much what I run into. I thought he had driven the whole blasted herd of baa-baas over that high bank and into the creek, for the number of dead sheep was sh.o.r.e scandalous.

"I followed that cussed trail north, east, south, west and then all over the whole United States, it seemed to me. And it was always growing older, because I had to waste time in dodging chaparrals and things like that that might hold him and his gun. I went picking my way on a roundabout course past thickets of honey mesquite and cactus gardens, over alkali flats and everything else, and the more I fooled about the madder I got. I ain't no real, genuine fool, and I've had some experience at trailing, but I had to confess that I was just a plain, ordinary monkey-on-a-stick when stacked up against a kid that was only about half my age, because suddenly the plainness of the trail disappeared and I was left out on the middle of a burning desert to guess the answer as best I could. I knew what he had done, all right, but that didn't help me a whole lot. Did you ever trail anybody that used padded-leather footpads on his cayuse's feet, and that went on a walk, picking out the hardest ground? No? Well, I have, and it's no cinch.

"I got tired of chasing myself back to the same place four times out of five, and I reckons that it wouldn't be very long before he had made his circle and got me in front of him. It ain't no church fair to be hunting a mad devil like him under the best conditions, and it's a whole lot less like one when he gets behind you doing the same thing. I didn't know whether he had swung to the north or south, so I tossed up a coin and cried heads for north--and it was tails. I cut loose at a lope and had been riding for some time when I saw something through an opening in the chaparrals to the east of me, and it moved. I swung my gla.s.ses on it, and I'm blamed if it wasn't an Apache war party bound north.

They were about a mile to the east of me, and if they kept on going straight ahead they would run across my trail in about three hours, for it gradually worked their way. I ducked right then and there and struck west for a time, turning south again until I hit the Cimarron Trail, which I followed east. Well, as I went around one side of the chaparral six mad Apaches went around the other, and they hit my trail too soon to suit me. I heard a hair-raising yell and lit out in the direction of Chattanooga as hard as I could go, with a hungry chorus a mile behind me.

"I had just pa.s.sed that freak bowlder on the Apache Trail when the man I was looking for turned up, and with the drop, of course. We reckoned that two was needed to stop the war-paints, which we did, him running the game and doing most of the playing. I felt like I was his honored guest whom he had invited to share in the festivities. He had plenty of chances to nail me if he wanted to, and he had chipped in on a game that he didn't have to take cards in; and to help me out. He could have let them get me and they would have thought that I had done all the injury and that there wasn't another man on the desert. But he didn't, and I began to think he wasn't as bad as he was painted."

Then he told of the trouble between The Orphan and Jimmy of the Cross Bar-8, and of the rage which blossomed out on the ranch.

"That sh.o.r.e settled it for the Cross Bar-8. They wanted lots of gore, and they got it, all right, when he played five of their punchers against the very war party he had sent north to meet me, while I was chasing him.

That war party must have found something to their liking, wandering about the country all that time."

Blake interrupted him: "War party that he sent north to meet you?" he asked in surprise. "How could he do that?"

"That's just what I said," replied Shields, and then he explained about the arrow. "Any man who could stack a deck like that and use one danger to wipe out another ain't going to get caught by an outfit of lunkheads--by George! if he didn't work nearly the same trick on the Cross Bar-8 crowd!

Oh, it's great, simply great!"

The foreman slapped his knee enthusiastically: "Fine! Fine!" he exulted.

"That fellow has got brains, plenty of them! And he'll make use of them to the good of this country, too, before we get through with him."

Shields continued: "After he sic'd the chumps of the Cross Bar-8 on the Apaches he sh.o.r.e raised the devil on the ranch and I was asked to go out and run things, which I did, or rather thought I would do. Charley and I and the two Larkin boys laid out on the plain all night, covered up with sand, waiting for him to show up between us and the windows--and the first thing I saw in the morning was Helen's flower pot here--it used to be Margaret's--setting up on top of a pile of sand under my very nose where he had stuck it while I waited for him--and blamed if he hadn't signed his name in the sand at its base!" He suddenly turned to his sister: "Tell Tom about him calling on you while I was waiting for him out on the ranch, Helen."

Helen did so and the way she told it caused the women to look keenly at her.

Blake laughed heartily: "Now, don't that beat all!" he cried.

"It don't beat this," responded the sheriff, turning again to Helen. "Tell him about the stage coach, Sis."

"Well, I don't know much about the first part of it," she replied. "All I remember is a terrible ride --oh, it was awful!" she cried, shuddering as she remembered the tortures of the Concord. "But when we stopped and after I managed to get out of the coach I saw the driver carrying a man on his shoulders and coming toward us. He laid his burden down and revived him--and he was a young man, and covered with blood." Then she paused: "He was real nice and polite and didn't seem to think that he had done anything out of the ordinary. Then we went on and he left us."

The sheriff laughed and leveled an accusing finger at her:

"You have left out a whole lot, Sis," he said affectionately. "Helen acted just like the thoroughbred she is, Tom," he continued. "I guess Bill told you all about it, for he's aired it purty well. Why, she even lost her gold pin a-helping him!" and he grinned broadly.

Helen shot him a warning glance, but it was too late; Mary suddenly sat bolt upright, her expression one of shocked surprise.

"Helen Shields!" she cried, "and I never thought of it before! How could you do it! Why, that horrid man will show your pin and boast about it to everybody! The idea! I'm surprised at you!"

"Tut, tut," exclaimed Shields. "I reckon that pin is all right. He might find it handy some day to return it, it'll be a good excuse when he gets on his feet. And I'd hate to be the man to laugh at it, or try to take it from him. Now, come, Mary, think of it right; it was the first kind act he had known since he lost his daddy. And that pin is one of my main stand-bys in this game. I believe that he'll be square as long as he has it."

"Well, I don't care, James," warmly responded Mary. "It was _not_ a modest thing to do when she had never seen him before, and he her brother's enemy and an outlaw!"

"How could I have fastened the bandage, sister dear?" asked Helen, her complexion slightly more colored than its natural shade. "It was so very little to do after all he had done for us!"

"Well, Tom and I have some business to talk over, so we'll leave you to fight the matter out among yourselves," the sheriff said, arising.

"Come to my room, Tom, I want to talk over that ranch scheme with you.

You bring the coffee pot and the cigars and I'll juggle the pie and gingerbread," he laughed as he led the way.

"Oh, Tom!" hastily called Mrs. Shields after good-nights had been said, and just before the door closed; "I promised you a dinner for your boys when Helen and Mary came, and if you think you can spare them this coming Sunday I will have it then."

"Thank you, Mrs. Shields," earnestly responded Blake, turning on the threshold. "It is awful good of you to put yourself out that way, and you can bet that the boys will be your devoted slaves ever after. If you must go to that trouble, why, Sunday or any day you may name will do for us. Gosh, but won't they be tickled!" he exulted as he pictured them feasting on goodies. "It'll be better than a circus, it sh.o.r.e will!"

"Why, it's no trouble at all, Tom," she replied, smiling at being able to bring cheer to a crowd of men, lonely, as she thought. "And you will arrange to have The Orphan with them, won't you?"

"I most certainly will," he heartily replied. "It'll do wonders for him."

He glanced quickly at Helen, but she was busily engaged in threading a needle under the lamp shade.

"Good night, all," he said as he closed the door.

CHAPTER XV

AN UNDERSTANDING

Blake settled himself in the easy chair which his host pushed over to him and crossed his feet on the seat of another, and became the personification of contentment. One of the black Perfectos which a friend in the East kept Shields supplied with, was tenderly nursed by his lips, its fragrant smoke slowly issuing from his nose and mouth, yielding its delights to a man who knew a good cigar when he smoked it, and who knew how to smoke it. At his elbow stood a coffee pot, flanked on one side by a plate piled high with gingerbread; on the other by an apricot pie. His eyes half-closed and his arms were folded, and a great peace stole over him. He had the philosopher's mind which so readily yields to the magic touch of a perfect cigar. In that short s.p.a.ce of time he was recompensed for a life of hardships, perils and but few pleasures.

They sat each lost in his own thoughts, in a silence broken only by the very low and indistinct hum of women's voices and the loud ticking of the clock, which soon struck ten. The foreman sighed, stirred to knock the ashes from his cigar, and then slowly reached his hand toward the pie.

Shields came to himself and very gravely relighted his cigar, watching the blue smoke stream up over the lamp. He looked at his contented friend for a few seconds and then broke the silence.

"Tom," he said, "what I'm going to tell you now is all meat. I couldn't say anything about it while the women were around, for they sh.o.r.e worry a lot and there wasn't no good in scaring them.

"The Cross Bar-8 outfit got saddled with the idea that they wanted a new sheriff, and four of them didn't care a whole lot how they made the necessary vacancy. I got word that they were going to pay Bill Howland for the part he played, and on the face of it there wasn't nothing more than that. It was natural enough that they were sore on him, and that they would try to square matters. Well, of course, I couldn't let him get wiped out and I took cards in the game. But, Lord, it wasn't what I reckoned it was at all. He was in for his licking, all right, but _he_ was the _little_ fish--and _I_ was the _big_ one.

"They got Bill in the defile of the Backbone and were going to lynch him--they beat him up shameful. He wouldn't tell them that I was hand-in-glove with The Orphan, which they wanted to hear, so they tried to scare him to lie, but it was no go.