AN INVITATION TO MOVE
“They’ve stopped!” breathed Grace.
“One of ’em hain’t,” answered Jim. “He’s comin’ on.”
“Jim-Sam, you sit tight, both of you. I’ll talk with him,” said
Hippy, stepping forward a little to get the light of the campfire at
his back.
A man on a gray bronco rode out of the shadows at a slow trot, and
pulled up a few yards from the camp where he sat surveying the
outfit. No one spoke, but the Overlanders were ready for any hostile
move.
After a few seconds the horseman slipped from his saddle, tossed the
bridle-rein over the pommel, and clanked towards the Overlanders.
Hippy stepped forward to meet him. The newcomer was short and
swarthy. He wore a Mexican sombrero, fancifully decorated; a gun
swung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in his
belt. Black, searching eyes swept from one to another of the
Overland Riders, finally returning to Hippy Wingate and resting on
him with a challenge in their depths.
“Well! Now that you have given us the once-over, what’s the big
idea?” demanded Hippy.
“Who be you?” snapped the horseman.
“I might ask the same question.”
“Don’t git funny. It ain’t healthy,” warned the fellow.
“We are here for reasons best known to ourselves, which can be of no
interest to you. Are you one of the party that attacked us last
night?”
“No, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.”
“Then what do you want here?”
“To tell you to git out! You ain’t got no business here. Pack up an’
mush out o’ this, an’ if you don’t do it fast enough I’ve got boys
that’ll help you along.”
Jim-Sam were getting nervous, but they were obeying orders. Tom Gray
stepped forward and asked the reason for the stranger’s demand.
“These heah is grazin’ grounds fer stock, and the man that owns them
don’t ’low no others on his land. Yer stock is eatin’ up the grass
that belongs to his cattle, so you’ll have to hike out of this heah
valley, and do it quick.”
“Stranger! Who is this feller that owns this range?” drawled Sam.
“Hornby! Malcolm Hornby of the ‘Double Q’ ranch,” was the prompt
reply.
“Stranger, I ain’t particular ’bout stirrin’ up trouble, bein’ an
old man and a little rheumatic in the joints, an’ ’specially in the
trigger finger, but what would ye say if I said ye was a liar?”
asked Sam half humorously, though the expression in his eyes was not
in harmony with his tone.
“I reckon I’d kill ye whar ye stand!” shot back the fellow, flushing
hotly under his tan.
“So?” nodded the guide.
“Is what this man says the truth?” demanded Tom Gray, turning to
Sam.
“This heah land don’t b’long to Hornby. Mebby he grazes his stock
heah, but this grass don’t b’long to nobody. We got as much right to
graze our stock heah as he has, an’ that’s all that’s to say ’bout
it.”
“You have your answer, Mr. Man. I don’t know your game, but it is my
opinion that you are not only what this gentleman has called you,
but that you are bad medicine as well,” declared Tom Gray, looking
the caller squarely in the eyes.
“Meanin’ that I’m a liar?”
“I reckon that’s about the size of it.”
“Get out of here!” commanded Hippy sharply. “We can take care of
ourselves.”
The stranger’s hand flew to his holster, but there the hand paused.
“Easy thar! Don’t draw,” warned Sam whose own right hand hovered
near his weapon. “It ain’t safe. You might hurt somebody, or mebby I
might hurt you, an’ that wouldn’t do nohow before these young women
who don’t like to see a feller git hurt. But if you’ve got to draw,
pint your gun this way an’ mebby I ain’t too old or my rheumatiz
ain’t too crinkly so that I can’t dodge yer bullet.”
The stranger’s hand closed over the butt of his revolver and half
drew the weapon from its holster. It drew no further, for the fellow
suddenly found himself facing Sam’s weapon, which had been drawn
with a speed that must have been a revelation to him, because his
face reflected amazement, as well as rage.
“If ye must shoot that gun off, take my advice an’ come ’round in
the daytime when ye can see better, an’ we’ll fit it out man to man.
But git! This ain’t no company fer a feller like you who can’t talk
without a gun in his hand. Be ye goin’?”
“Yes, but I’ll come back and you’ll be the one to git,” the fellow
flung at him, turning abruptly on his heel.
“Hol’ on a minute thar!” commanded the guide. “Don’t try to start
nothin’ at all heah. These friends of mine an’ these fine young
women has seen yer kind before an’ they’d as lief shoot as not. Go
back to Hornby, if he sent ye, an’ tell him to come out hisself if
he is so tarnation ’fraid we’ll spile this grass. Jest a word more.
We’ll watch ye an’ if ye try any tricks we’ll shoot. That’s all I’ve
got to say to ye.”
“You’ll hear from me!” shouted the departing caller as he flung
himself into his saddle.
“I hear ye now, but yer voice sounds like as if ye was afraid of
somethin’,” drawled Sam.
The fellow rode away without another word.
“Follow him, Sam!” urged Grace. “We don’t know but they may rush us,
just as the raiders did last night,” warned Grace.
“Leave it to Jim. He’s out thar an’ Jim kin trail a canary bird
without the bird ever knowin’ it. Jim’ll give us the word if them
fellers try any of their fancy tricks.”
“Oh, Samuel, why didn’t you shoot while you had an excuse for doing
so?” begged Emma.
The Overlanders laughed. They knew Emma and they did not take her
suggestion seriously.
Half an hour later, during which time the Overland Riders had
remained quietly alert, Jim came stalking in, stroking his whiskers.
“Have they gone?” questioned the Overlanders in chorus.
“I reckon they knowed what was good for ’em, so they skedaddled,”
replied Jim.
“Which way an’ whar did they go?” demanded Sam.
“West! How do I know whar they went?”
“If you was half a man you would know. You ain’t no more ’count, an’
not half so much use, as that tarnation mule that carries yer pack.
But it ain’t your fault, an’ I reckon I oughter not set so much
store by you. A feller can’t be blamed much because he was borned
with half a teaspoonful of brains in his haid,” raged Sam.
“I s’pose ye think you an’ that mule of yourn has all the brains in
this heah outfit. Wal, I reckon you’re part right ’cause you an’ the
mule has got some brains, but when the Lord made ye he got you two
mixed. He thought you was the mule, so he give you the mule’s brains
an’ the mule got yourn. I reckon—”
“Oh, shet up, will ye?” snarled Sam savagely, tugging viciously at
his whiskers, while a gale of laughter swept over the Overland
Riders. Jim and Sam did not speak to each other again that night,
but glared as they met in their prowling about in ceaseless vigil of
the camp.
The next morning found the guides still deadly enemies, but after
breakfast Emma cleared the clouds away by making a disparaging
remark about Jim to Sam, whereupon Sam promptly came to the defense
of his partner, and Jim heard it.
A late start was made, the guides having informed their charges that
they were only a few hours’ ride from Old Joe Bindloss’s “Circle O”
ranch. An hour after the start they again discovered what they
believed to be their mysterious horseman, but he disappeared shortly
after luncheon and was seen no more, and the Overland Riders, making
a sharp turn to the right, now headed towards the purple haze behind
which lay the foothills and the mountains of the Coso range, where
adventure awaited them.