396

Rimrock Trail

[Illustration]

Rimrock Trail

CHAPTER I

GRIT

"Mormon" Peters carefully shifted his weighty bulk in the chair that he
dared not tilt, gazing dreamily at the saw-toothed mountains shimmering
in the distance, sniffing luxuriously the scent of sage.

"They oughter spell Arizona with three 'C's,'" he said.

"Why?" asked Sandy Bourke, wiping the superfluous oil from the revolver
he was meticulously cleaning.

"'Count of Climate, Cactus, Cattle--an' Coyotes."

"Makin' four, 'stead of three," said the managing partner of the Three
Star Ranch.

Came a grunt from "Soda-Water" Sam as he put down his harmonica on which
he had been playing _The Cowboy's Lament_, with variations.

"Huh! You got no more eddication than a horn-toad, an' less common
sense. You don't spell Arizony with a 'C.' You can't. 'Cordin' to yore
argymint you should spell Africa with a 'Z' 'cause they raise zebras
there, 'stead of mustangs. Might make it two 'R's,' 'count of rim-rock
an'--an' revolvers."

Mormon snorted.

"That's a hell of a name for a man born in Maricopa County to call a
gun. _Revolver!_ You 'mind me of the Boston perfesser who come to
Arizona tryin' to prove the Cliff Dwellers was one of the Lost Tribes of
Israel. He blows in with an introduction to the Double U, where I was
workin'. Colonel Pawlin's wife has a cold snack ready, it bein' middlin'
warm. The perfesser makes a pretty speech, after he'd eaten two men's
share of victuals tryin', I reckon, to put some flesh on to his bones.
An' he calls the lunch a _col-lay-shun_! Later, he asks the waitress
down to the Rodeo Eatin' House, while he's waitin' for his train, for a
serve-yet. A _serve-yet_! That's what he calls a napkin. You must have
been eddicated in Boston, Sam, though it's the first time I ever
suspected you of book learnin'."

It was Sunday afternoon on the Three Star rancheria. The riders, all the
hands--with the exception of Pedro, the Mexican cocinero, indifferent to
most things, including his cooking; and Joe, his half-breed helper,--had
departed, clad in their best shirts, vests, trousers, Stetsons and
bandannas of silk, some seeking a poker game on a neighboring rancho,
some bent on courting. Pedro and Joe lay, faces down, under the shade of
the trees about the tenaya, the stone cistern into which water was
pumped by the windmills that worked in the fitful breezes.

The three partners, saddle-c