Steve Yeager | Page 2

circled around a
tongue of a foothill which here jutted out. Voices from just beyond the
bend startled Yeager. One of them was raised impatiently.
"Won't do, Harrison. Be rougher. Throw her on her knees and tie her
hands."
The itinerant road brought Steve in another moment within view. He
saw a girl picking poppies. Two men rode up and swung from their
saddles. They talked with her threateningly. She shrank back in fear.
One of them seized her wrists and threw her down.
"Lively, now. Into the pit with her. Get the stuff across," urged a short
fat man with a cigar in his mouth who was standing ten or fifteen yards
back from the scene of action.
Steve had put his horse at a gallop the moment the girl had been seized.
It struck him there was something queer about the affair,--something
not quite natural to which he could not put a name. But he did not stop
to reason out the situation. Dragging his pony to a slithering halt, he
leaped to the ground.
"Get busy, Jackson. You ain't in a restaurant waiting for a meal," the
little fat man reminded one of his tools irritably. Then, as he caught

sight of Steve, "What the hell!"
Yeager's left shot forward, all the weight and muscle of one hundred
and seventy pounds of live cowpuncher behind it. Villain Number One
went to the ground as if a battering-ram had hit him between the eyes.
"Lay hands on a lady, will you?"
Steve turned to Villain Number Two, who backed away rapidly in
alarm.
"What's eatin' you? We ain't hurtin' her any, you mutt."
The girl, still crouched on the ground, turned with a nervous little laugh
to the man who had been directing operations:--
"What d'you know about that, Billie? The rube swallowed it all. You
gotta raise my salary."
The cowpuncher felt in the pit of his stomach the same sensation he
had known when an elevator in Denver had dropped beneath his feet
too suddenly. The young woman was rouged and painted to the ears.
Never in its palmiest days had the 'Dobe Dollar's mirrors reflected a
costume more gaudy than the one she was wearing. The men too were
painted and dolled up extravagantly in vaqueros' costumes that were the
limit of absurdity. Had they all escaped from a madhouse? Or was he,
Steve Yeager, in a pipe-dream?
From a near grove of cottonwoods half a dozen men in chaps came
running. Assured of their proximity, the fat little fellow pawed the air
with rage.
"Ever see such rotten luck? Spoiled the whole scene. Say, you Rip Van
Winkle, think we came out here for the ozone?"
One of the men joined the young woman, who was assisting the villain
Yeager had knocked out. The others crowded around him in excitement,
all expostulating at once. They were dressed wonderfully and

amazingly as cowpunchers, but they were painted frauds in spite of the
careful ostentation of their costumes. Steve's shiny leathers and dusty
hat missed the picturesque, but he looked indigenous and they did not.
He was at his restful ease, this slender, brown man, negligent, careless,
eyes twinkling but alert. The brand of the West was stamped indelibly
on him.
"I ce'tainly must 'a' spilled the beans. Looks like I done barked up the
wrong tree," he drawled amiably.
A man who had been standing on a box behind some kind of a masked
battery jumped down and joined the group.
"Gee! I've got a bully picture of our anxious friend laying out Harrison.
Nothing phony about that, Threewit. Won't go in this reel, but she'll
make a humdinger in some other. Say, didn't Harrison hit the dust fine!
Funny you lads can't ever pull off a fall like that."
An annoyed voice, both raucous and sneering, interrupted his
enthusiasm. "Just stick around, Mr. Camera Man, and you'll get a
chance to do another bit of real life that ain't faked. I'm goin' to hammer
the head off Buttinski presently."
The camera man, an alert, boyish fellow as thin as a lath, turned and
grinned. Harrison was sitting up a little unsteadily. Burning black eyes,
set in sockets of extraordinary depths, blazed from a face sinister
enough to justify Steve's impression of him as a villain. The shoulders
of the man were very broad and set with the gorilla hunch; he was
deep-chested and lean-loined. His eyes shifted with a quick, furtive
menace. His companions might be imitation cowpunchers, but if
Yeager was any judge this was no imitation bad man.
"Going to eat him alive, are you?" the camera man wanted to know
pleasantly.
Steve pushed through to Harrison. A whimsical little smile of apology
crinkled the boyish face.

"It's on me, compadre. I'm a rube, and