The Two-Gun Man | Page 4

men sprang forward to examine it.
"Six times!" ejaculated the tall man in an awed tone. "An' he didn't pull his gun till he'd throwed the can!"
He approached the stranger, drawing him confidentially aside. The crowd slowly dispersed, loudly proclaiming the stranger's ability with the six-shooter. The latter took his honors lightly, the mocking smile again on his face.
"I'm lookin' for a man who can shoot," said the tall man, when the last man of the crowd had disappeared into the saloon.
The stranger smiled. "I reckon you've just seen some shootin'," he returned.
The tall man smiled mirthlessly. "You particular about what you shoot at?" he inquired.
The stranger's lips straightened coldly. "I used to have that habit," he returned evenly.
"Hard luck?" queried the tall man.
"I'm rollin' in wealth," stated the stranger, with an ironic sneer.
The tall man's eyes glittered. "Where you from?" he questioned.
"You c'n have three guesses," returned the stranger, his eyes narrowing with the mockery that the tall man had seen in them before.
The tall man adopted a placative tone. "I ain't wantin' to butt into your business," he said. "I was wantin' to find out if any one around here knowed you."
"This town didn't send any reception committee to meet me, did they?" smiled the stranger.
"Correct," said the tall man. He leaned closer. "You willin' to work your guns for me for a hundred a month?"
The stranger looked steadily into the tall man's eyes.
"You've been right handy askin' questions," he said. "Mebbe you'll answer some. What's your name?"
"Stafford," returned the tall man. "I'm managin' the Two Diamond, over on the Ute."
The stranger's eyelashes flickered slightly. His eyes narrowed quizzically. "What you wantin' of a gun-man?" he asked.
"Rustler," returned the other shortly.
The stranger smiled. "Figger on shootin' him?" he questioned.
Stafford hesitated. "Well, no," he returned. "That is, not until I'm sure I've got the right one." He seized the stranger's arm in a confidential grip. "You see," he explained, "I don't know just where I'm at. There's been a rustler workin' on the herd, an' I ain't been able to get close enough to find out who it is. But rustlin' has got to be stopped. I've sent over to Raton to get a man named Ned Ferguson, who's been workin' for Sid Tucker, of the Lazy J. Tucker wrote me quite a while back, tellin' me that this man was plum slick at nosin' out rustlers. He was to come to the Two Diamond two weeks ago. But he ain't showed up, an' I've about concluded that he ain't comin'. An' so I come over to Dry Bottom to find a man."
"You've found one," smiled the stranger.
Stafford drew out a handful of double eagles and pressed them into the other's hand. "I'm goin' over to the Two Diamond now," he said. "You'd better wait a day or two, so's no one will get wise. Come right to me, like you was wantin' a job."
He started toward the hitching rail for his pony, hesitated and then walked back.
"I didn't get your name," he smiled.
The stranger's eyes glittered humorously. "It's Ferguson," he said quietly.
Stafford's eyes widened with astonishment. Then his right hand went out and grasped the other's.
"Well, now," he said warmly, "that's what I call luck."
Ferguson smiled. "Mebbe it's luck," he returned. "But before I go over to work for you there's got to be an understandin'. I c'n shoot some," he continued, looking steadily at Stafford, "but I ain't runnin' around the country shootin' men without cause. I'm willin' to try an' find your rustler for you, but I ain't shootin' him--unless he goes to crowdin' me mighty close."
"I'm agreein' to that," returned Stafford.
He turned again, looking back over his shoulder. "You'll sure be over?" he questioned.
"I'll be there the day after to-morrow," stated Ferguson.
He turned and went into the Silver Dollar. Stafford mounted his pony and loped rapidly out of town.

CHAPTER III
THE CABIN IN THE FLAT
It was the day appointed by Ferguson for his presence at the Two Diamond ranch, and he was going to keep his word. Three hours out of Dry Bottom he had struck the Ute trail and was loping his pony through a cottonwood that skirted the river. It was an enchanted country through which he rode; a land of vast distances, of white sunlight, blue skies, and clear, pure air. Mountains rose in the distances, their snowcapped peaks showing above the clouds like bald rock spires above the calm level of the sea. Over the mountains swam the sun, its lower rim slowly disappearing behind the peaks, throwing off broad white shafts of light that soon began to dim as vari-colors, rising in a slumberous haze like a gauze veil, mingled with them.
Ferguson's gaze wandered from the trail to the red buttes that fringed the river. He knew this world; there was no