Trailin'!

BLUFF

He found no dance in progress, however, but in the otherwise empty eating place, which Sally owned and ran with her two capable hands and the assistance of a cook, sat Sally herself dining at the same table with the tenderfoot, the flirt, the horse-breaker, the tamer of gun-fighters.

Nash stood in the shadow of the doorway watching that lean, handsome face with the suggestion of mockery in the eyes and the trace of sternness around the thin lips.  Not a formidable figure by any means, but since his experiences of the past few days, Nash was grown extremely thoughtful.

What he finally thought he caught in this most unusual tenderfoot was a certain alertness of a more or less hair-trigger variety.  Even now as he sat at ease at the table, one elbow resting lightly upon it, apparently enwrapped in the converse of Sally Fortune, Nash had a consciousness that the other might be on his feet and in the most distant part of the room within a second.

What he noted in the second instant of his observation was that Sally was not at all loath to waste her time on the stranger.  She was eating with a truly formidable conventionality of manner, and a certain grace with which she raised the ponderous coffee cup, made of crockery guaranteed to resist all falls, struck awe through the heart of the cowpuncher.  She was bent on another conquest, beyond all doubt, and that she would not make it never entered the thoughts of Nash.  He set his face to banish a natural scowl and advanced with a good-natured smile into the room.

“Hello!” he called.

“It’s old Steve!” sang out Sally, and whirling from her chair, she advanced almost at a run to meet him, caught him by both hands, and led him to a table next to that at which she had been sitting.

It was as gracefully done as if she had been welcoming a brother, but Nash, knowing Sally, understood perfectly that it was only a play to impress the eye of Bard.  Nevertheless he was forced to accept it in good part.

“My old pal, Steve Nash,” said Sally, “and this is Mr. Anthony Bard.”

Just the faintest accent fell on the “Mr.,” but it made Steve wince.  He rose and shook hands gravely with the tenderfoot.

“I stopped at Butler’s place down the street,” he said, “and been hearin’ a pile about a little play you made a while ago.  It was about time for somebody to call old Butch’s bluff.”

“Bluff?” cried Sally indignantly.

“Bluff?” queried Bard, with a slight raising of the eyebrows.

“Sure—­bluff.  Butch wasn’t any more dangerous than a cat with trimmed claws.  But I guess you seen that?”

He settled down easily in his chair just as Sally resumed her place opposite Bard.

“Steve,” she said, with a quiet venom, “that bluff of his has been as good as four-of-a-kind with you for a long time.  I never seen you make any play at Butch.”

He returned amiably:  “Like to sit here and have a nice social chat, Sally, but I got to be gettin’ back to the ranch, and in the meantime, I’m sure hungry.”

At the reminder of business a green light came in the fine blue eyes of Sally.  They were her only really fine features, for the nose tilted an engaging trifle, the mouth was a little too generous, the chin so strong that it gave, in moments of passivity, an air of sternness to her face.  That sternness was exaggerated as she rose, keeping her glare fixed upon Nash; a thing impossible for him to bear, so he lowered his eyes and engaged in rolling a cigarette.  She turned back toward Bard.

“Sorry I got to go—­before I finished eating—­but business is business.”

“And sometimes,” suggested Bard, “a bore.”

It was an excellent opening for a quarrel, but Nash was remembering religiously a certain thousand dollars, and also a gesture of William Drew when he seemed to be breaking an imaginary twig.  So he merely lighted his cigarette and seemed to have heard nothing.

“The whole town,” he remarked casually, “seems scared stiff by this Butch; but of course he ain’t comin’ back to-night.”

“I suppose,” said the tenderfoot, after a cold pause, “that he will not.”

But the coldness reacted like the most genial warmth upon Nash.  He had chosen a part detestable to him but necessary to his business.  He must be a “gabber” for the nonce, a free talker, a chatterer, who would cover up all pauses.

“Kind of strange to ride into a dark town like this,” he began, “but I could tell you a story about—­”

“Oh, Steve,” called the voice of Sally from the kitchen.

He rose and nodded to Bard.

“’Scuse me, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thanks,” answered the other, with a somewhat grim emphasis.

In the kitchen Sally spoke without prelude.  “What deviltry are you up to now, Steve?”

“Me?” he repeated with eyes widened by innocence.  “What d’you mean, Sally?”

“Don’t four-flush me, Steve.”

“Is eating in your place deviltry?”

“Am I blind?” she answered hotly.  “Have I got spring-halt, maybe?  You’re too polite, Steve; I can always tell when you’re on the way to a little bell of your own making, by the way you get sort of kind and warmed up.  What is it now?”

“Kiss me, Sally, and I’ll tell you why I came to town.”

She said with a touch of colour:  “I’ll see you—­” and then changing quickly, she slipped inside his ready arms with a smile and tilted up her face.

“Now what is it, Steve?”

“This,” he answered.

“What d’you mean?”

“You know me, Sally.  I’ve worn out the other ways of raising hell, so I thought I’d start a little by coming to Eldara to kiss you.”

Her open hand cracked sharply twice on his lean face and she was out of his arms.  He followed, laughing, but she armed herself with a red-hot frying pan and defied him.

“You ain’t even a good sport, Steve.  I’m done with you!  Kiss you?”

He said calmly:  “I see the hell is startin’, all right.”

But she changed at once, and smiled up to him.

“I can’t stay mad at you, Steve.  I s’pose it’s because of your nerve.  I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Is that a way to take it!  I’ve asked you a favour, Steve.”

He said suspiciously:  “It’s got something to do with the tenderfoot in the room out there?”

It was a palpable hit, for she coloured sharply.  Then she took the bull by the horns.

“What if it is?”

“Sally, d’you mean to say you’ve fallen for that cheap line of lingo he passes out?”

“Steve, don’t try to kid me.”

“Why, you know who he is, don’t you?”

“Sure; Anthony Bard.”

“And do you know who Anthony Bard is?”

“Well?” she asked with some anxiety.

“Well, if you don’t know you can find out.  That’s what the last girl done.”

She wavered, and then blinked her eyes as if she were resolved to shut out the truth.

“I asked you to do me a favour, Steve.”

“And I will.  You know that.”

“I want you to see that Bard gets safe out of this town.”

“Sure.  Nothing I’d rather do.”

She tilted her head a little to one side and regarded him wistfully.

“Are you double-crossin’ me, Steve?”

“Why d’you suspect me?  Haven’t I said I’d do it?”

“But you said it too easy.”

The gentleness died in her face.  She said sternly:  “If you do double-cross me, you’ll find I’m about as hard as any man on the range.  Get me?”

“Shake.”

Their hands met.  After all, he did not guarantee what would happen to the tenderfoot after they were clear of the town.  But perhaps this was a distinction a little too fine for the downright mind of the girl.  A sea of troubles besieged the mind of Nash.

And to let that sea subside he wandered back to the eating room and found the tenderfoot finishing his coffee.  The latter kept an eye of frank suspicion upon him.  So the silence held for a brooding moment, until Bard asked:  “D’you know the way to the ranch of William Drew?”

It was a puzzler to Nash.  Was not that his job, to go out and bring the man to Drew’s place?  Here he was already on the way.  He remembered just in time that the manner of bringing was decidedly qualified.

He said aloud:  “The way?  Sure; I work on Drew’s place.”

“Really!”

“Yep; foreman.”

“You don’t happen to be going back that way to-night?”

“Not all the way; part of it.”

“Mind if I went along?”

“Nobody to keep you from it,” said the cowpuncher without enthusiasm.

“By the way, what sort of a man is Drew?”

“Don’t you know him?”

“No.  The reason I want to see him is because I want to get the right to do some—­er—­fishing and hunting on a place of his on the other side of the range.”

“The place with the old house on it; the place Logan is?”

“Exactly.  Also I wish to see Logan again.  I’ve got several little things I’d like to have him explain.”

“H-m!” grunted Nash without apparent interest.

“And Drew?”

“He’s a big feller; big and grey.”

“Ah-h-h,” said the other, and drew in his breath, as though he were drinking.

It seemed to Nash that he had never seen such an unpleasant smile.

“You’ll get what you want out of Drew.  He’s generous.”

“I hope so,” nodded the other, with far-off eyes.  “I’ve got a lot to ask of him.”