Old Rory McPherson, with a cow-puncher riding on each side of him, came
to Antelope town. It was an event, when Rory came to Antelope. He was
past middle-age, a tall, thin man, with a thatch of flaming red hair,
red whiskers and a fighting eye. His face was thin and almost as red as
his whiskers, while his eyes were of an iceberg blue.
Rory had been a powerful fighting man in his youth, and woe unto him
who might hint that Rory was not as young as he used to be! He swung
off his big roan horse, tied it to a hitch-rack, and looked around
belligerently, as if daring any one to contest his right to be in
town.
None did. Rory knew that they would not; but he always waited for
some one to try. With him was Dick Clarey and “Biddy” Toole, two of
his cowpunchers. They wore their sombreros at an aggressive angle,
swaggered in their walk and talked boldly.
Antelope was a town of about two hundred inhabitants; but it boasted
a two-story brick building wherein was housed the bank. Two-story
brick buildings were not common in that part of the range country,
and Antelope had a right to be proud.
The rest of the business houses were of the false-front, one-story
variety, with wind and sand-scoured signs, badly in need of paint. There
were the inevitable board sidewalks, built well above the ground for no
apparent reason, except, as one of the old timers said, “It makes ’em
high enough t’ set on kinda good.”
Old Rory shoved his hands into his overall pockets and threw back his
head as he stared at the brick building. It was not new. Rory had seen
it many times; but he always stared at it, muttering a curse into his
red beard.
He hated “Big Jim” Mott, the man who had built and owned that brick
building; hated him with every drop of his Scotch blood.