ms. Las
Vegas shoved him out--cussed him so hard we all heerd.... So, Beasley,
there ain't no fight comin' off as we figgered on."

Beasley thus heard the West speak out of the mouth of his own man. And
grim, sardonic, almost scornful, indeed, were the words of Buck Weaver.
This rider had once worked for Al Auchincloss and had deserted to
Beasley under Mulvey's leadership. Mulvey was dead and the situation was
vastly changed.

Beasley gave Weaver a dark, lowering glance, and waved him away. From
the door Weaver sent back a doubtful, scrutinizing gaze, then slouched
out. That gaze Beasley had not encountered before.

It meant, as Weaver's cronies meant, as Beasley's long-faithful riders,
and the people of the range, and as the spirit of the West meant, that
Beasley was expected to march down into the village to face his single
foe.

But Beasley did not go. Instead he paced to and fro the length of Helen
Rayner's long sitting-room with the nervous energy of a man who
could not rest. Many times he hesitated, and at others he made sudden
movements toward the door, only to halt. Long after midnight he went
to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn
arose, gloomy and irritable.

He cursed the Mexican serving-women who showed their displeasure at
his authority. And to his amaze and rage not one of his men came to
the house. He waited and waited. Then he stalked off to the corrals and
stables carrying a rifle with him. The men were there, in a group that
dispersed somewhat at his advent. Not a Mexican was in sight.

Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go down into
the village with him. That order was disobeyed. Beasley stormed and
raged. His riders sat or lounged, with lowered faces. An unspoken
hostility seemed present. Those who had been longest with him were least
distant and strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley
roared for his Mexicans.

"Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes
sloped--gone these two hours--on the way to Magdalena," said Buck
Weaver.

Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was the most
astounding. Beasley cursed with his questioning wonder.

"Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin' cowboy from Texas,"
replied Weaver, imperturbably.

Beasley's dark, swarthy face changed its hue. What of the subtle
reflection in Weaver's slow speech! One of the men came out of a corral
leading Beasley's