The Two-Gun Man | Page 5

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 novelty here for him. He
knew the lava beds, looming gray and dead beneath the foothills; he
knew the grotesque rock shapes that seemed to hint of a mysterious
past. Nature had not altered her face. On the broad levels were the
yellow tinted lines that told of the presence of soap-weed, the dark lines
that betrayed the mesquite, the saccatone belts that marked the little
guillies. Then there were the barrancas, the arid stretches where the
sage-brush and the cactus grew. Snaky octilla dotted the space; the
crabbed yucca had not lost its ugliness.
Ferguson looked upon the world with unseeing eyes. He had lived here
long and the country had not changed. It would never change. Nothing
ever changed here but the people.
But he himself had not changed. Twenty-seven years in this country
was a long time, for here life was not measured by age, but by
experience. Looking back over the years he could see that he was living
to-day as he had lived last year, as he had lived during the last
decade--a hard life, but having its compensations.
His coming to the Two Diamond ranch was merely another of those
incidents that, during the past year, had broken the monotony of range
life for him. He had had some success in breaking up a band of cattle
thieves which had made existence miserable for Sid Tucker, his
employer, and the latter had recommended him to Stafford. The
promise of high wages had been attractive, and so he had come. He had
not expected to surprise any one. When during his conversation with
the tall man in Dry Bottom he had discovered that the latter was the
man for whom he was to work he had been surprised himself. But he
had not revealed his surprise. Experience and association with men who
kept their emotions pretty much to themselves had taught him the value
of repression when in the presence of others.
But alone he allowed his emotions full play. There was no one to see,
no one to hear, and the silence and the distances, and the great,
swimming blue sky would not tell.
Stafford's action in coming to Dry Bottom for a gunfighter had puzzled

him not a little. Apparently the Two Diamond manager was intent upon
the death of the rustler he had mentioned. He had been searching for a
man who could "shoot," he had said. Ferguson had interpreted this to
mean that he desired to employ a gunfighter who would not scruple to
kill any man he pointed out, whether innocent or guilty. He had had
some experience with unscrupulous ranch managers, and he had
admired them very little. Therefore, during the ride today, his lips had
curled sarcastically many times.
Riding through a wide clearing in the cottonwood, he spoke a thought
that had troubled him not a little since he had entered Stafford's
employ.
"Why," he said, as he rode along, sitting carelessly in the saddle, "he's
wantin' to make a gunfighter out of me. But I reckon I ain't goin' to
shoot no man unless I'm pretty sure he's gunnin' for me." His lips curled
ironically. "I wonder what the boys of the Lazy J would think if they
knowed that a guy was tryin' to make a gunfighter out of their old straw
boss. I reckon they'd think that guy was loco--or a heap mistaken in his
man. But I'm seein' this thing through. I ain't ridin' a hundred miles just
to take a look at the man who's hirin' me. It'll be a change. An' when I
go back to the Lazy J----"
It was not the pony's fault. Neither was it Ferguson's. The pony was
experienced; behind his slant eyes was stored a world of horse-wisdom
that had pulled him and his rider through many tight places. And
Ferguson had ridden horses all his life; he would not have known what
to do without one.
But the pony stumbled. The cause was a prairie-dog hole, concealed
under a clump of matted mesquite. Ferguson lunged forward, caught at
the saddle horn, missed it, and pitched head-foremost out of the