"Get down, I tell you!" commanded the big man.

Joe obeyed, his thin form shaking with fear, and stood shrinking against his horse's side, his fearful eyes fixed on the man.

"Now, come here."

"Don't, Nick; for G.o.d's sake! don't hit me. I didn't mean no harm. Let me off this time, won't you, Nick?"

"Come here. You got it comin', d.a.m.n you, an' you know it. Come here, I say!"

As if it were beyond his power to refuse, the wretched creature took a halting step or two toward the man whose brutal will dominated him; then he paused and half turned, as if to attempt escape. But that menacing voice stopped him.

"Come here!"

Whimpering and begging, with disconnected, unintelligible words, the poor fellow again started toward the man with the quirt.

At the critical moment a quiet, well-schooled voice interrupted the scene.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Cambert!"

Nick whirled with an oath of surprise and astonishment, to face Patches, who was coming leisurely toward him from the bushes above the spring.

"What are you doin' here?" demanded Nick, while his victim slunk back to his horse, his eyes fixed upon the intruder with dumb amazement.

"I came for a drink," returned Patches coolly. "Excellent water, isn't it? And the day is really quite warm--makes one appreciate such a delightfully cool retreat, don't you think?"

"Heard us comin' an' thought you'd play the spy, did you?" growled the Tailholt Mountain man.

Patches smiled. "Really, you know, I am afraid I didn't think much about it," he said gently. "I'm troubled that way, you see," he explained, with elaborate politeness. "Often do things upon impulse, don't you know--beastly embarra.s.sing sometimes."

Nick glared at this polite, soft-spoken gentleman, with half-amused anger. "I heard there was a dude tenderfoot hangin' 'round the Cross-Triangle," he said, at last. "You're sure a h.e.l.l of a fine specimen. You've had your drink; now s'pose you get a-goin'."

"I beg pardon?" drawled Patches, looking at him with innocent inquiry.

"Vamoose! Get out! Go on about your business."

"Really, Mr. Cambert, I understood that this was open range--" Patches looked about, as though carefully a.s.suring himself that he was not mistaken in the spot.

The big man's eyes narrowed wickedly. "It's closed to you, all right."

Then, as Patches did not move, "Well, are you goin', or have I got to start you?" He took a threatening step toward the intruder.

"No," returned Patches easily, "I am certainly not going--not just at present--and," he added thoughtfully, "if I were you, I wouldn't try to start _anything_."

Something in the extraordinary self-possession of this soft-spoken stranger made the big man hesitate. "Oh, you wouldn't, heh?" he returned. "You mean, I s'pose, that you propose to interfere with my business."

"If, by your business, you mean beating a man who is so unable to protect himself, I certainly propose to interfere."

For a moment Nick glared at Patches as though doubting his own ears.

Then rage at the tenderfoot's insolence mastered him. With a vile epithet, he caught the loaded quirt in his hand by its small end, and strode toward the intruder.

But even as the big man swung his wicked weapon aloft, a hard fist, with the weight of a well-trained and well-developed shoulder back of it, found the point of his chin with scientific accuracy. The force of the blow, augmented as it was by Nick's weight as he was rushing to meet it, was terrific. The man's head snapped back, and he spun half around as he fell, so that the uplifted arm with its threatening weapon was twisted under the heavy bulk that lay quivering and harmless.

Patches coolly bent over the unconscious man and extracted his gun from the holster. Then, stepping back a few paces, he quietly waited.

Yavapai Joe, who had viewed the proceedings thus far with gaping mouth and frightened wonder, scrambled into his saddle and reined his horse about, as if to ride for his life.

"Wait, Joe!" called Patches sharply.

The weakling paused in pitiful indecision.

"Nick will be all right in a few minutes," continued the stranger, rea.s.suringly. "Stay where you are."

Even as he spoke, the man on the ground opened his eyes. For a moment he gazed about, collecting his shocked and scattered senses. Then, with a mad roar, he got to his feet and reached for his gun, but when his hand touched the empty holster a look of dismay swept over his heavy face, and he looked doubtfully toward Patches, with a degree of respect and a somewhat humbled air.

"Yes, I have your gun," said Patches soothingly. "You see, I thought it would be best to remove the temptation. You don't really want to shoot me, anyway, you know. You only think you do. When you have had time to consider it all, calmly, you'll thank me; because, don't you see, I would make you a lot more trouble dead than I could possibly, alive. I don't think that Mr. Baldwin would like to have me all shot to pieces, particularly if the shooting were done by someone from Tailholt Mountain. And I am quite sure that 'Wild Horse Phil' would be very much put out about it."

"Well, what do you want?" growled Nick. "You've got the drop on me. What are you after, anyway?"

"What peculiar expressions you western people use!" murmured Patches sweetly. "You say that I have got the drop on you; when, to be exact, you should have said that you got the drop _from_ me--do you see? Good, isn't it?"

Nick's effort at self-control was heroic.

Patches watched him with an insolent, taunting smile that goaded the man to reckless speech.

"If you didn't have that gun, I'd--" the big man began, then stopped, for, as he spoke, Patches placed the weapon carefully on a rock and went toward him barehanded.

"You would do what?"

At the crisp, eager question that came in such sharp contrast to Patches' former speech, Nick hesitated and drew back a step.

Patches promptly moved a step nearer; and his words came, now, in answer to the unfinished threat with cutting force. "What would you do, you big, hulking swine? You can bully a weakling not half your size; you can beat a helpless incompetent like a dog; you can bl.u.s.ter, and threaten a tenderfoot when you think he fears you; you can attack a man with a loaded quirt when you think him unable to defend himself;--show me what you can do _now_."

The Tailholt Mountain man drew back another step.

Patches continued his remarks. "You are a healthy specimen, you are. You have the frame of a bull with the spirit of a coyote and the courage of a sucking dove. Now--in your own vernacular--get a-goin'. Vamoose! Get out! I want to talk to your superior over there."

Sullenly Nick Cambert mounted his horse and turned away toward one of the trails leading out from the little arena.

"Come along, Joe!" he called to his follower.

"No, you don't," Patches cut in with decisive force. "Joe, stay where you are!"

Nick paused. "What do you mean by that?" he growled.

"I mean," returned Patches, "that Joe is free to go with you, or not, as he chooses. Joe," he continued, addressing the cause of the controversy, "you need not go with this man. If you wish, you can come with me. I'll take care of you; and I'll give you a chance to make a man of yourself."

Nick laughed coa.r.s.ely. "So, that's your game, is it? Well, it won't work. I know now why Bill Baldwin's got you hangin' 'round, pretendin'

you're a tenderfoot, you d.a.m.ned spy. Come on, Joe." He turned to ride on; and Joe, with a slinking, sidewise look at Patches, started to follow.