All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 101: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MIDNIGHT OF She was grimly silent, her stubbed, pa- tient fingers working at the folds of her dress. Her head down. She seemed daunted. | ‘“Come, own up,” Barney went on, re- Jentless. ‘‘ You thought you’d make me knuckle; make me keep sweet on that lit- tle house-cat I’ve played wi’ since we were kids together—”’ “ Barnee!”’ Her head snapped erect. Her hands ceased their play with the old, worn dress. Barnum grinned, guffawed. Maltrane turned on him with an oath. Barnquist caught something in the tone of her that stirred him out of his easy, overbearing demeanor. “Well?” he snarled, with a new access of determination, put on to hide his un- derlying uneasiness. ‘“Youa estop,” the breed woman or- dered, one long arm flailing out, an accus- ing forefinger pointed at him; “ you best not call my girl bad nahmes, Barnee.” ‘“‘ But you lied "bout th’ will to keep me in line wit’ her?” “Yes,” with growing intensity, ‘I hie bout will, Barnee. Why so? ’Fraid you goin’ not marvee my girl, Ess-Way, Barnee. You all taime lie, lie, lie, f’om kid up, Barnee. I’m think eef you makin’ some love to her again, you’ll marvee her, what she wants—” “Marry! Her? Good enough for a kid plaything, but marry—” The breed’s eyes blazed. ‘“‘ You take th’ girl, an’ you git off’n Ox Bow, poco pronto. Do you hear?” the cattle princeling bellowed. “Yes, I’m hearin’ you, Barnee,” came the level, menacing answer. ‘I’m been here years, for your fadther, he made me housekeep’. Ol’ Bart, he was bad man, some ways. He kill, he steal cattle, yes. He make quarrel, he make Mal kill. But one t’ing he was—a friend to friend. You ” —her voice went up to a scream—‘“ vou bad—all bad, to friend, to enemy. Pagh!”’ She spat— The defiled face of the heir went white. He wiped off the spittle with shaking hands. His hand flew to gun-butt. He surged upright. THE RANGES. 91 “Not thataway! Not to a woman, breed or none!” Maltrane had his hand in a firm grasp. The door slammed. The breed woman was gone. ‘‘ She—she riled me,” Barney said, his hand, futile, drooping from his gun. ‘Nuff to rile any one,” Barnum cut in, with like acid. ‘“'Yes,”’ and Maltrane’s thin-browed eyes narrowed as he fixed the other in his in- tent gaze; “yes, but not thataway to a woman, breed or none.” ‘Gettin’ soft—under th’ hat?” Barney growled. “T’m "bout this soft, Barnquist, that I stick by them that sticks by me. I wonder by hell, how far you’d subscribe to sich doctrine ?”’ Without a word farther he whipped around on his heel and went out. Barnquist and Barnum, sitting there in silence, soon heard a stir in the ranch yard. There was a clack of Mexican tongues as the servants of the lesser sorts came filing out; they caught the words of farewell. a The ranch’s buckboard was there, har- nessed. On the seat was Greasewood Kate, silent, face immobile. Seated on her dun- nage, strapped on behind, was Ess-Way, her eyesgtinged from grief. The girl clung to some of the straps as the harness was being cinched on to the ponies. The driver came from the bunkhouse—Lars Maltrane. There was a rattle of wheels, and the buckboard had gone. Barney sent out to make an inquiry, and Barnum brought back word that Kate had told the servants she was going to Coppered Jack to work in one of the eating-houses there, giving no reason for quitting her place. ‘““There’s another goin’ soon,” Barnquist stormed to Barnum, when he had heard the hireling’s report; “‘ an’ tha’s Lars Mal- trane. I fired Kate so ’t I’d be boss inside my own house, an’ I’ll have to get rid o’ Mal so ’t I'll be boss outdoors. No man c’n ride herd on this ranch crowd all-ways behind another geezer’s gun.” Barnum salved his pride with a chuckle of approval. He was glad to have the cCoOmiclbooks C©