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SQUARE DEAL SANDERSON
by
CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER
Author of
The Boss of the Lazy Y, "Beau" Rand, "Drag" Harlan, The Ranchman, etc.
Frontispiece by J. Allen St. John
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers --- New York
Published, March, 1922
[Frontispiece: Out of the valley went Streak, running with long, smooth
leaps.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I The North Trail
II A Man's Curiosity
III "Square" Deal Sanderson
IV In Which a Man Is Sympathetic
V Water and Kisses
VI Sanderson Lies
VII Kisses--A Man Refuses Them
VIII The Plotters
IX The Little Man Talks
X Plain Talk
XI The Ultimatum
XII Dale Moves
XIII A Plot that Worked
XIV The Voice of the Coyote
XV Dale Pays a Visit
XVI The Hand of the Enemy
XVII The Trail Herd
XVIII Checked by the System
XIX A Question of Brands
XX Devil's Hole
XXI A Man Borrows Money
XXII A Man from the Abyss
XXIII The Gunman
XXIV Concerning a Woman
XXV A Man Is Aroused
XXVI A Man Is Hanged
XXVII The Ambush
XXVIII Nyland Meets a Killer
XXIX Nyland's Vengeance
XXX The Law Takes a Hand
XXXI The Fugitive
XXXII Winning a Fight
XXXIII A Man Leaves Okar
XXXIV A Man Gets a Square Deal
XXXV A Deal in Love
Square Deal Sanderson
CHAPTER I
THE NORTH RAID
An hour before, Deal Sanderson had opened his eyes. He had been
comfortably wrapped in his blanket; his head had been resting on a saddle
seat. His sleep over, he had discovered that the saddle seat felt hard
to his cheek. In changing his position he had awakened. His face toward
the east, he had seen a gray streak widening on the horizon--a herald of
the dawn.
Sanderson found what seemed to be a softer spot on the saddle, snuggled
himself in the blanket, and went to sleep again. Of course he had not
neglected to take one sweeping glance around the camp while awake, and
that one glance had convinced him that the camp was in order.
The fire had long since gone out--there was a heap of white ashes to mark
the spot where it had been. His big brown horse--Streak--unencumbered by
rope or leather, was industriously cropping the dew-laden blades of some
bunch-grass within a dozen yards of him; and the mighty desolation of the
place was as complete as it had seemed when he had pitched his camp the
night before.
Sanderson reveled in the luxury of complete idleness. He grinned at the
widening streak of dawn as he closed his eyes. There would be no
vitriolic-voiced cook to bawl commands at him _this_ morning. And no
sour-faced range boss to issue curt orders.
In an hour or so--perhaps in two hours--Sanderson would crawl out of his
blanket, get his own breakfast, and ride northeastward. He was a free
agent now, and would be until he rode in to the Double A to assume his
new duties.
Judging by the light, Sanderson had slept a full hour when he again
awakened. He stretched, yawned, and grinned at the brown horse.
"You're still a-goin' it, Streak, eh?" he said, aloud. "I'd say you've
got a medium appetite. There's times when I envy you quite considerable."
Reluctantly Sanderson sat up and looked around. He had pitched his camp
at the edge of a thicket of alder and aspen near a narrow stream of water
in a big arroyo. Fifty feet from the camp rose the sloping north wall of
the arroyo, with some dwarf spruce trees fringing its edge. Sanderson
had taken a look at the section of country visible from the arroyo edge
before pitching his camp. There were featureless sand hills and a wide
stretch of desert.
Sanderson started to get to his feet. Then he sat down again, stiffening
slowly, his right hand slipping quickly to the butt of the pistol at his
right hip. His chin went forward, his lips straightened, and his eyes
gleamed with cold alertness.
A horseman had appeared from somewhere in the vast space beyond the
arroyo edge. Sanderson saw the outlines of animal and rider as they
appeared for an instant, partly screened from him by the trees and
undergrowth on the arroyo edge. Then horse and rider vanished, going
northward, away from the arroyo, silently, swiftly.
Schooled to caution by his long experience in a section of country where
violence and sudden death were not even noteworthy incidents of life, and
where a man's safety depended entirely upon his own vigilance and wisdom,
Sanderson got up carefully, making no noise, slipped around the thicket
of alder, crouched behind a convenient rock, huge and jagged, and waited.
Perhaps the incident was closed. The rider might be innocent of any evil
intentions; he might by this time be riding straight away from the
arroyo. That was for Sanderson to determine.
The rider of the horse--a black one--had seemed to be riding stealthily,
leaning forward over the black horse's mane as though desirous of
concealing his movements as much as possible. From whom?
It had seemed that he feared Sanderson would see him; that he had
misjudged his distance from the gully--thinking he was far enough away to
escape observation, and yet not quite certain, crouching in the saddle to
be on the safe side in case he was nearer than he had thought.
Sanderson waited--for only a few minutes actually, but the time seemed
longer. Then, just when he was mentally debating an impulse to climb to
the top of the gully, to see if the rider was in sight, he heard a sound
as of a heavy body crashing through some underbrush, and saw two riders
skirting the edge of the arroyo near him.
They halted their horses back of the spruce trees near the arroyo edge.
The rank undergrowth in the timber prevented them seeing Sanderson's
horse--which was further concealed by the thicket of alder. The men,
however, did not look into the arroyo. Their attention and interest
appeared to be centered upon the actions of the first horseman. Sitting
erect in their saddles, they shaded their eyes with their hands and gazed
northward.
After a short look, one of the men laughed, unpleasantly.
"Sneakin'--he is," said the one who laughed. "Knows we're campin' on his
trail, an' reckons on givin' us the slip. I never thought Bill would go
back on his friends thataway. We'll make him sweat, damn him!"
The other cursed, also. "Hoggin' it, he is," he said. "I ain't never
trusted him. He won't divvy, eh? Well, he won't need it where he's
goin'."
Both laughed. Then one said, coldly: "Well, I reckon we won't take
chances on losin' him again--like we did last night. We'll get him right
now!"
They urged their horses away from the edge of the gully. Sanderson could
hear the clatter of hoofs, receding. He had heard, plainly, all the
conversation between the two.
There was a grin of slight relief on Sanderson's face. The men were not
aiming at him, but at the first rider. It was clear that all were
concerned in a personal quarrel which was no concern of Sanderson's. It
was also apparent to Sanderson that the two men who had halted at the
edge of the arroyo were not of the type that contributed to the peace and
order of the country.
Plainly, they were of the lower strata of riffraff which had drifted into
the West to exact its toll from a people who could not claim the
protection of a law that was remote and impotent.
Sanderson suspected that the first rider had been concerned in some
lawless transaction with the other two, and that the first rider had
decamped with the entire spoils. That much was indicated by the words of
the two. Dire punishment for the first man was imminent.
Sanderson had no sympathy for the first rider. He felt, though, a slight
curiosity over the probable outcome of the affair, and so, working
rapidly, he broke camp, threw saddle and bridle on the white horse,
strapped his slicker to the cantle of the saddle, and rode the brown
horse up the slope of the arroyo, taking the direction in which the three
men had disappeared.