CHAPTER I—THE ACE OF SPADES

The two men faced each other across the little table in the living-room of the Circle Spade ranch-house, in the light of a single oil lamp. The younger of the two men was Jack McCoy, known as “Angel,” while the other was Rance McCoy, his father, and owner of the Circle Spade ranch.

Angel McCoy was rather tall, well muscled, with features as clean-cut as a cameo. His skin was almost as white as milk, his hair as black as jet, and he wore it long in front of his ears—a swinging curl of inky-black against his white cheek. His eyes were brown, shaded by sharpcut brows. There was no denying the fact that he was handsome.

Just now he wore a white silk shirt, with a red handkerchief knotted around his throat, black trousers tucked into the tops of a pair of fancy, high-heeled boots—and about him was an odor of perfume.

Rance McCoy’s appearance had nothing in common with his son’s. He was about fifty years of age, grizzled, hard-faced, with a skin the color of jerked venison. His eyes were gray, and there were scars on his face, which showed lighter than the rest of his skin; scars of many battles. Rance McCoy had been a fighter in his time. There were other scars, which did not show, where hot lead had scored him time and again.

He was tough, was Rance McCoy; an old gunman, afraid of nothing—not even of his handsome son.

“Well, all I can say is that you’ve got some damned queer ideas,” said Angel slowly.

“Mebby I have,” said the old man.

“No maybe about it,” said Angel sneeringly. “Lila is of age and I’m of age. If I want to marry her, it’s none of yore business.”

“You think not? Well, everybody is entitled to an opinion. I’ve told yuh about me, Angel.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think much of yuh.”

Angel got to his feet and stood there, looking down at his father.

“I knew all along that Lila wasn’t my sister,” he said slowly.

The old man lifted a hand to fend the light from his eyes, as he looked up at his son.

“Billy DuMond told yuh, Angel?”

“Ten years ago. He said you killed her father and then adopted her.”

“That drunken thief!” muttered the old man.

“Who—Lila’s father?”

“No—Billy DuMond.”

“I don’t know anythin’ about that part of it,” said Angel. “He merely told me that she wasn’t my sister. You don’t deny that, do yuh?”

“No, I don’t deny it.”

Angel slowly rolled a cigarette, watching the old man’s face.

“Maybe you think I’m not good enough for her, eh? Was that why you were willin’ to give me my share of the cattle, and let me buy out the Eagle? Wanted to get rid of me, eh?”

Angel laughed harshly and lighted his cigarette over the top of the lamp-chimney.

“There wasn’t any question of gettin’ rid of yuh,” said Rance McCoy slowly. “It was yore own proposition. You wanted to run a saloon and be a gambler; so I gave yuh yore share of the cattle. I sent Lila away to school. It cost me a lot of money to educate her, Angel.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Angel exhaled a cloud of smoke through his shapely nostrils.

“But as far as you marryin’ Lila—you’ll not,” declared Rance McCoy flatly. “I raised the two of yuh together, and I know all about both of yuh. I’ve heard that you’re a crooked dealer, Angel. Men don’t hint things like that unless there’s some truth in it. Crooked at cards, crooked at everythin’.”

Angel McCoy jerked forward, his dark eyes glittering in the yellow light.

“Crooked, am I?” he laughed harshly. “No man dares say it to my face. They come and whine to you, do they? And you believe things like this of yore own son! That’s why you won’t let me marry Lila, eh? All right; I’ll tell Lila that she ain’t yore daughter. I’ll tell her you killed her father. I’ll tell——”

“If yuh do”—Rance McCoy’s old face twisted harshly and he leaned forward, shoving his right shoulder against the table—“If yuh do, Angel—I’ll kill yuh. A long time ago yuh ceased to be my son. Oh, yuh’ll get an even break. I never killed any man without givin’ him an even break.”

“Even break!” exclaimed Angel. “What man ever had an even break with you? I’ve seen yuh draw and shoot, old man.”

The old man laughed mirthlessly. Few men could draw and shoot with Rance McCoy.

“Yuh always did lose yore nerve in a showdown,” he said.

“I never lost my nerve,” growled Angel. “But this ain’t a shootin’ proposition.”

The old man studied him for a space of several minutes.

“Angel,” he said slowly, “what does Lila know about this? She wouldn’t marry her own brother. What have yuh told her?”

Angel smiled crookedly and rested his elbows on the table.

“Well, if you’ve got to know—she knows.”

“She knows?”

“I told her tonight.”

“Yuh told her tonight?”

“That you ain’t her father—yes. No, I never asked her to marry me—not yet. But by God, I’m goin’ to ask her!”

The old man got slowly to his feet, disclosing the fact that he wore a holstered gun. Angel also wore one, and the mother-of-pearl handle flashed like an opal in the yellow light. With a twitch of his left hand the old man jerked out a drawer from the table and produced an old deck of playing-cards.

He dropped them on the table and looked sharply at Angel, who was watching him curiously.

“Shuffle ’em,” ordered the old man.

“What’s the idea?”

“I’m givin’ yuh an even break, Angel. You’re a gambler, and I’m givin’ yuh a gambler’s chance. Shuffle the cards and let me cut ’em. You can do the dealin’. The one who gets the ace of spades—shoots first.”

“You mean——” Angel hesitated.

“You know what I mean, yuh yaller pup.”

Angel flushed quickly and reached for the cards. His long fingers riffled the cards with mechanical precision. Time after time he split the deck, until it seemed as though he was trying to wear out the cards. The old man’s keen eyes watched those hands, and there was a half-smile on his lips.

“That’s enough,” he said drawlingly. “Let me cut.”

It seemed to Angel that the old man studied the deck rather carefully before he made the cut.

“The one who gets the ace of spades shoots first, eh?” said Angel, and it seemed as though his voice trembled.

The old man nodded.

“Go ahead and deal.”

Angel hesitated.

“This is foolishness, old man. If I shoot yuh, they’ll hang me for murder. Lila’s upstairs.”

“She don’t know you’re here.”

“But the shot would wake her up.”

“How long do yuh think it’ll take yuh to get away? You talk as though yuh already had the ace of spades. I’ll take my chances. Go ahead and deal.”

Angel shuddered slightly. It was all so ridiculous, this idea of dealing for the first shot. But the old man did not seem to mind. There was not a tremor in the gnarled hand that rested on the old table-top.

“Go ahead and deal, you coward,” he said coldly.

With a flick of his fingers the gambler threw the first two cards—ace of hearts, six of clubs. There were fifty more cards in the deck.

King, jack. It was the king of spades.

“Hittin’ close,” said the old man.

Angel licked his lips and dealt the next two slowly—ten, deuce.

“How far for the first shot?” he asked hoarsely.

“Width of the room. Can’t miss. Deal.” Queen, deuce.

“Runnin’ small on yore side,” observed the old man.

Angel licked his lips again and his right hand trembled, as he dealt himself a trey to Rance’s second king.

“Why don’tcha git it over with, Angel?” taunted the old man. “Losin’ yore nerve?”

But Angel did not reply. His eyes were staring at the cards as they fell. The deck was getting thin now. Not over a dozen cards left. It was difficult for him to swallow. The oil was low in the lamp, and it had begun to smoke a little.

Six cards left. Ace of diamonds, seven of hearts. Only four left. His hands felt heavy as lead. He wanted to say something, but his mouth was too dry. With a super-effort he managed to deal the next two cards—two deuces.

There were only two cards left in his hand; two old dog-eared cards that held his fate. He stared down at them as though fascinated. He looked across the table at the face of his father, who was laughing at him. Slowly his right hand went to his lips—a hand that trembled a tattoo against his mouth—and with a strangled word he dropped the two cards on the floor, turned on his heel, and stumbled to the door. He flung the door open, and a moment later came the staccato drumming of his horse’s hoofs, as he rode swiftly away from the ranch.

The old man still stood beside the table, a half-smile on his lips, as he looked down at the cards. Then he stepped around the table and picked up those last two cards—a six of hearts and the joker. Then he swept up all the cards and opened the table drawer. Looking up at him from the bottom of the drawer was the ace of spades. It had been left there when the deck had been taken out.

“Busted his nerve,” whispered the old man. “Lucky thing that old joker was bent enough to lift up the deck and give me a chance to cut it on the bottom. Still, I didn’t think he had nerve enough to deal fifty of ’em—I wouldn’t have had, that’s a cinch.”

CHAPTER II—THE EAGLE SALOON

Angel McCoy rode back to Red Arrow, his mind filled with mixed emotions. Although it hurt him deeply, he was obliged to admit to himself that his father had out-gamed him. He tried to explain to his conscience that the whole thing had been a colossal piece of melodrama, and that he feared to get the ace of spades. He was a good shot. There was little doubt in his mind that his first shot would settle the whole argument, and he would be branded as a murderer.

There had never been any love lost between himself and his father. Their natures had always clashed. But Angel, even with his cold-blooded nature, did not want to be branded a parricide. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous now. Lila had been away to school for five years, and had returned a beautiful young lady, fit to turn the head of any man in the country. She was not his sister, and he could conceive of no reason why he should not marry her—if she was willing. She knew now that Rance McCoy was not her father, and, being of age, could do as she pleased.

Angel rode up to his own stable, at the rear of the Eagle saloon and gambling-house, put up his horse and entered the saloon by a rear door. The Eagle was rather a large place for a Western town, being an oblong room about sixty feet long by thirty feet wide. On the right-hand side was a long bar, while part of the center, with all the left-hand side, was taken up by tables and gambling paraphernalia.

At the rear of the saloon were two private rooms, one of which was used as sleeping-quarters by Angel. During the week there was little play at the Eagle, but on Saturday and Sunday, when the Red Arrow cowboys came to town, there was plenty business.

The first man Angel McCoy met as he came into the place was Billy DuMond, a man as old as Rance McCoy, slouchy, unshaven, partly drunk. He was employed as a cowboy with the Half-Box R outfit, owned by “Butch” Reimer. Angel had known DuMond for years.

“Hyah, Angel,” greeted DuMond owlishly.

“Hello, Billy. I was kinda hopin’ I’d see yuh.”

Angel drew DuMond aside and lowered his voice.

“I just had a run-in with the old man, Billy. He knows you told me about Lila; so yuh better steer clear of him.”

DuMond wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed dryly.

“Lemme git yuh straight, Angel. Yuh told him I said it?”

“Yeah; that he killed Lila’s father and then adopted her. You told me about it ten years ago, yuh remember.”

“Uh-huh. Well”—DuMond cuffed his shapeless hat over one ear and stared at Angel—“Well, what did yuh drag me into it fer? I don’t want no trouble.”

“A man don’t get into trouble by tellin’ the truth.”

“Th’ hell they don’t! I knowed a horse-thief that told the truth—and they hung him. And you told old Rance McCoy that I said—I—Angel, I’m shore sorry yuh told it.”

“You scared of him, Billy?”

“Well, by God!” snorted DuMond, cuffing his hat to the opposite side of his head. “Any old time I git m’ spark of life blowed out, who’s goin’ to light her ag’in? Don’t you re’lize that yore old man is danger’s?, He’ll shoot.”

Angel laughed shortly.

“I reckon you’re right, Billy; I’m sorry.”

“Sorrow won’t help me none.”

“Did yuh know Lila’s father?”

“No! I don’t know nothin’! I don’t even ’member tellin’ yuh anythin’. Ten years ago! Must ’a’ been drunk. Who’s this here Lila you’re talkin’ about, Angel?”

“Oh, go to hell!” snorted Angel, and went on toward the bar, where he met Butch Reimer and Dell Blackwell, one of Reimer’s cowboys. Butch Reimer was of medium height, with wide shoulders and a face that might well have belonged to a prize-fighter of the old bare-knuckle school. Several years previous to this time Butch had been kicked square in the face by a sharp-shod horse. There were no plastic surgeons at that time, so Butch’s face had merely healed up, leaving a crooked nose, twisted mouth, and a misplaced eyebrow, not to mention numerous indentations never intended by Nature in her most uncritical moods.

Dell Blackwell was a lithe, olive-complexioned, black-haired cowboy; inveterate gambler, bronco rider, and reputed a bad man to start trouble with.

“I just got nicked for a hundred in yore ecarte game,” growled Butch. “Drew a four and a five; but the dealer turned a natural.”

“Butch had a system,” smiled Blackwell. “Always won his first bet, yuh know; so he slapped down a hundred as a first bet. What’s new, Angel?”

“Not a damned thing, Dell.”

“Have a drink,” growled Butch. “I hear Lila’s home.”

“Yeah,” said Angel shortly.

“Growed up much?”

“Sure.”

“You’re sure talkative. Where yuh been—out to see the old man?”

Angel nodded moodily.

“I thought so,” grinned Butch, as he filled his glass. He knew that Angel and his father usually quarreled.

“What made yuh think that?” demanded Angel.

“Jist from yore actions. Oh, I don’t blame yuh. He jist the same as told me to keep off his place last week. And I’m goin’ to stay off, too. Ask Dell why.”

“Cinch,” laughed Dell. “I dropped in there a couple weeks ago and found the old man practicin’. I tell yuh, he was shootin’ pepper cans off the corral fence at sixty feet. Stuck up six in a row, about two feet apart, and hit every danged one of ’em. You jist try hittin’ three-inch squares every time at sixty feet with a forty-five.”

“I can jist hit my hat at that distance,” grinned Butch, “and I wear the widest thing Stetson makes.”

“And you jist shoot good enough to win my money,” laughed Blackwell.

“Somebody will kill him one of these days,” said Angel.

“Yeah—send him a bomb by express. Let’s have another.”

CHAPTER III—LILA’S DEPARTURE

Morning at the Circle Spade still found Rance McCoy humped in his chair beside the table in the old living-room. The lamp had burned dry long since, and the chimney was soot-streaked. “Chuckwalla Ike” Hazen, the old cook, was in the kitchen, wrestling with the cooking utensils. Chuckwalla Ike was as old as Rance McCoy, a weather-beaten old desert cook, crooked in the legs from riding bad horses in his youth, with his left elbow slightly out of line from stopping a bullet.

Chuckwalla wore a long, sad-looking mustache, and his head was as bald as a baseball. His nose was generous, and one cheek was habitually pouched from tobacco. He was clad in a sleeveless undershirt, overalls, and moccasins, as he peered into the living-room at Rance McCoy.

“Up kinda early ain’t yuh, Rance?” he drawled.

“I was—uh—I reckon I better put me on a shirt. Plumb forgot we’ve got a lady among us. Say, whatsa matter with yuh? Look like hell this mornin’.”

“I’m all right,” said Rance huskily.

“Which yuh ain’t a-tall. Yuh can’t fool Chuckwalla. What time does the Queen of Sheber come among us f’r nourishment?”

“I dunno,” wearily.

“Well, I s’pose not.”

Chuckwalla scratched his shoulder against a corner of the doorway.

“She shore growed up purty, didn’t she, Rance? Five year ago she was a tow-headed kid with long legs and freckles, and she used to yell at me, ‘Chuckwalla Ike, go set on a spike,’ and now she pokes out her hand and says, ‘Mr. Hazen, how do yuh do.’ There’s only one thing that improves with age, and that’s liquor.”

“They grow up,” said Rance slowly.

“Don’t they? Well, I s’pose I’d better scare up a flock of biscuits. She allus liked ’em. Mebby I better put on a shirt. She might not like a cook in dishabelle, as they say. And my lingeree is kinda mournful, too. And yuh might tell Monty Adams and Steve Winchell to cut out their profane greetin’s to me this mornin’. As far as the human voice is concerned, this ranch-house leaks like a sieve.”

Rance McCoy turned his head and looked curiously at old Chuckwalla.

“You heard what was said last night?”

“That don’t bother me,” said Chuckwalla quickly. “But I shore was curious to know who got that black ace, and quit on the job.”

“I got it,” said Rance softly, glancing toward the stairs.

“Uh-huh.” Chuckwalla opened his mouth widely, blinked his eyes and backed toward the stove, where he turned and began shaking up the fire. Rance walked out to the front porch, and the old cook looked after him, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

“Rance,” he said to himself, “you’re addin’ lies to the rest of yore sins.”

Rance McCoy sat down on the steps of the old ranch-house which had been his home for eighteen years. There were a few stunted rosebushes in the yard. Near the corner of the house grew a gnarled cottonwood tree. The barbed-wire fence sagged badly in spots, and the weeds grew unmolested. To his left was the long, low stable, and beyond it was the series of pole-corrals. On the hill beyond the stable a bunch of cattle were stringing away from the ranch waterhole in the willows. Several miles away to the south he could see a streamer of black smoke from a train, heading toward Red Arrow, northwest of the ranch.

The Circle Spade had never been a big cattle outfit. Only two cowboys were employed by Rance McCoy. He had never been well liked in the Red Arrow country. Gun-men are usually respected, but rarely liked. They let old Rance alone when he came to town and got drunk, which he did at rare intervals; but never blind drunk.

He could hear Monty Adams and Steve Winchell, the two cowboys, noisily washing their faces at the old wash-bench near the kitchen door, and joking with Chuckwalla Ike. Came a step on the porch, and he turned to see Lila. She was a tall, slender girl, her shapely head piled high with a wealth of golden-blonde hair, and wearing a pale blue dress.

Her eyes were slightly red, as though she had been crying. She leaned against the left side of the doorway and looked at the man she had always believed to be her father.

“How didja sleep, Lila?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

“Not very well.”

“Uh-huh.”

His shoulders hunched beneath his coarse blue shirt, and he turned his gaze away from her.

“Well, go ahead,” he said slowly. “No use sparrin’ around. Angel told yuh a lot of things last night, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do yuh think about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know what to think. He said you killed my father.”

Old Rance lifted his head and stared across the hills, his left hand caressing his stubbled chin.

“Yeah, he told me the same thing, Lila.”

“I heard what was said.”

“Didja? What did yuh hear?”

“You—you forced him to deal those cards.”

Rance laughed harshly.

“Busted his nerve, didn’t I?”

“Did you? Do you suppose he would have shot you, if he had drawn the card?”

“I hope so; I hate a quitter.”

“But you are his father!”

“It never meant much to Angel.”

“Would you have shot him?”

“If I had drawn that ace of spades—sure.”

She did not know that the ace of spades had been left in the drawer.

“Where is my father buried?” asked Lila softly.

Rance McCoy shook his head.

“I can’t tell yuh, Lila.”

“Does Billy DuMond know?”

“He don’t know anythin’ about it, except what he heard.”

Chuckwalla Ike came to the doorway and called:

“You folks ready to eat?”

“Better go in and eat, Lila,” said Rance.

But Lila shook her head, and after a sharp glance at Rance McCoy, Chuckwalla went back to the kitchen, complaining to himself.

“Where is my mother?” asked Lila.

“Yore mother?” Rance frowned heavily. “Oh, yeah—yore mother. Well, I dunno, Lila.”

“Didn’t my father tell you?”

“No-o-o, he didn’t say.”

“But you killed him.”

Rance McCoy hunched his shoulders helplessly.

“Let’s me and you not talk about it, Lila. It’s all gone and forgotten now. You’ve been my little girl ever since yuh wasn’t knee-high to a nail; you’re still my little girl.”

The old man’s voice was not very steady and he did not look at her.

“It’s not forgotten,” said Lila bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me a long time ago? I haven’t any right to—I’m not your daughter. You haven’t any adoption papers, have you?”

Rance shook his head sadly.

“Wasn’t anything like that, Lila. I didn’t never want yuh to know. I wish I’d killed Billy DuMond before he ever told Angel. The drunken bum ain’t hardly fit to hang on the hot end of a bullet. Angel wants to marry yuh, Lila. Mebby yuh heard him say it last night. But don’t do it.”

“That has nothing to do with the case,” said Lila evenly. “You know I can’t stay here any longer.”

Old Rance turned and looked keenly at her.

“Yuh—uh—yuh can’t stay here?” he faltered.

“Don’t you see how it is?” helplessly. “I don’t belong here. I—I’ll try and pay you back for what I’ve cost you. I don’t know how it can be done, but I’ll try. You’ve been good to me.”

Lila turned abruptly on her heel and went back into the house. The old man sank a little lower on the step, when he heard her tell Chuckwalla she did not want any breakfast. She was talking to the two cowboys, but Rance could not hear what was said.

A few minutes later Monty Adams came out to him. He was industriously picking his teeth and trying to appear at ease. Monty was tow-headed, rather flat-faced, and of medium height.

“Lila asked me to hitch up the buckboard and take her to town,” said Monty. “Is it all right, Rance?”

“Sure.”

Rance cleared his throat harshly, but did not look around. When Monty went back into the house Rance got up and walked down to the stable, where he sat down on an overturned box and looked gloomily at the ranch-house. He watched Monty and Steve hitch up the old backboard, and saw Chuckwalla carry Lila’s trunk out to the ranch-house porch.

There was no good-bye spoken. Lila came down and Steve helped her into the vehicle. She shook hands with Chuckwalla, and drove away with Monty. Steve sauntered down to the bunk-house, followed by a collie pup, which carried a piece of board in its mouth, while Chuckwalla sat down on the porch and rolled a cigarette.

He looked up quizzically as Rance came up to the porch, but the owner of the Circle Spade said nothing. For possibly five minutes they sat there together, saying nothing. Chuckwalla was the first to break the silence.

“Wimmin,” he said solemnly, “do beat hell.”

“Men, too,” said Rance sadly.

“Yeah, that’s right, Rance; they shore do. If I was you, I’d slap Billy DuMond to a peak and then kick the peak off.”

Rance McCoy smiled bitterly.

“What would yuh gain by that, Chuckwalla?”

“I dunno. Mebby he ain’t worth the effort, Rance. Oh, you can set there and pull yore old poker-face, Rance McCoy. But I know yuh. I know how yuh feel toward Lila. It’s jist like takin’ pincers and pullin’ out yore finger-nails. I may not have a lot of brains, but I ain’t dumb.

“She ain’t showin’ any sense, I tell yuh. My God, you’ve done everythin’ for her. What if yuh ain’t her daddy? Yuh shore been good to her, old-timer. Even if you did kill her real father. I don’t know a thing about it, and I don’t want to. I’ve been with you goin’ onto eight year, Rance; and her own dad couldn’t ’a’ been better to her. It’s that school she’s been to. They done give her top-heavy ideas, that’s what.”

“I know,” said Rance softly. “But don’t blame her too much. It was a shock to her, Chuckwalla.”

“To know you killed her dad? Shucks, what’s that? She didn’t know him no better than I knowed Gineral Custer—and I don’t hold no grudge ag’in’ the Injuns. That’s why I allus say that wimmin do beat hell. There ain’t never been no wimmin in my life, Rance. And I was a likely critter in m’ youth. Lots a girls looked sideways at me.”

“And now you’re jist a cow-outfit cook,” said Rance seriously.

“Yea-a-ah—and what are you? Owner of the outfit; eatin’ your tough old heart out over a girl that don’t deserve it; father of a son that ort to be kicked in the pants and showed the error of his ways. You ain’t got no edge on me, Rance. I tell yuh what I would like to do. How much money have I got comin’?”

“About eighty dollars, Chuckwalla.”

“Plenty. I’ve got a notion to go to Red Arrer and git so drunk that all m’ previous libations would look like the mornin’ meal of a day-old calf. I ain’t been drunk since they quit callin’ the Platte River Nee-brath-kah. That’s what’s makin’ us old, Rance. By God, pretty soon me and you will be so old we’ll be preachin’ temp’-rance.”

Old Rance shook his head sadly.

“I’d be scared to, Chuckwalla. If I got six drinks under my hide, I’d kill somebody.”

“Well, don’t be so finicky about it. Come on in and throw some ham and aigs into yuh. Yessir, I b’lieve it’s time that me and you blowed off steam. Eig’hty dollars, eh? Sounds like joybells to me. Jist forget that little lady with the queer ideas. If she marries that jug-headed son of yours, she’ll still be in the fambly.”

Monty Adams took Lila to Red Arrow and she got a room at the Valley Hotel. She had little to say to Monty on the way to town, except that she would probably stay in Red Arrow until she heard from some friends in the East. Angel saw them drive up to the hotel, and lost no time in joining them. When he saw Lila’s baggage he knew she had left the Circle Spade, and was secretly glad. Monty drove the team over to the Eagle Saloon, leaving Lila and Angel together.

“I left the ranch,” she said simply.

“That’s what I thought, Lila. Well, I suppose it was the best thing to do. What are yore plans?”

“I haven’t any, Angel. I just think in circles. But first of all I want to have a talk with Billy DuMond.”

“I’m afraid yuh won’t,” smiled Angel. “Bill is scared of his life. I told him the old man knew what he told me. He’s scared of Rance McCoy—and I don’t blame him.”

“Not after what happened last night,” said Lila.

Angel’s face flushed hotly.

“You heard that, Lila?”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry about that. But it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I lost my nerve, Lila. It was one of the most cold-blooded games I ever heard about. But that was like him. The man has no conscience, no nerves at all. He’s a born killer. Friendship means nothin’ to him.”

“I wonder if it does,” sighed Lila.

“Not a thing in the world. He don’t know the meanin’ of the word friendship. Oh, I don’t care if he is my father. I’m old enough to know things. He’s been good to me, in his own queer way. But we never agreed. Last night was the climax. If he had drawn that ace of spades, he’d have killed me.”

“I think he would,” said Lila. “Anyway, he said he would.”

“And been glad of the chance,” growled Angel. “Well, I’m all through with him. I’ll get somebody to help put yore trunk into the hotel, Lila. You just stay here until yuh make up yore mind what yuh want to do, and don’t worry about the money end of it. The owner of this hotel owes me a fat gamblin’ bill, and this will be a good way to collect it.”

CHAPTER IV—CHUCKWALLA MAKES A MISTAKE

In spite of the fact that the town of Red Arrow was on a transcontinental railroad, and with the advantages of being a county seat, it had never grown beyond its original cow-town stage. Perhaps it was because no one was interested in Red Arrow, except those who lived there before the railroad came through the valley. It was not a division point, and many of the trains only stopped on flag.

Red Arrow Valley was about ten miles wide at this point, with the Little Smoky range on the west and the old lava beds on the east. The valley ran southeast, and the Red Arrow River ambled its way down through the valley with many a twist and turn.

The nearest town to Red Arrow was Welcome, fifteen miles to the southeast. Between Red Arrow and Welcome was the Curlew Spur, where loading-pens had long been installed for the convenience of the cattlemen south of Red Arrow.

The Circle Spade ranch was about six miles slightly south of east from Red Arrow. Directly south, and about the same distance from town, was Butch Reimer’s Half-Box R. Northeast, five miles from town, was the JML outfit, owned by Jim Langley, and about three miles north of town, on Coyote Creek, was the 77 horse outfit, owned by Henry Cave.

Red Arrow town had a business district which was really only about one long block in length by a short block in width. The buildings were all of weather-beaten frame structure, sans paint. The Valley Hotel and the courthouse were two-story buildings, but the biggest structure was the livery stable. The streets were of three varieties—dust, snow, or mud, according to the season.

The long arm of the law was represented by Slim Caldwell, sheriff, and two deputies, “Chuck” Ring and “Scotty” McKay. Prior to becoming a citizen of Red Arrow and getting himself elected sheriff of the county, Caldwell had been a Texas Ranger. Scotty McKay almost became a member of the famous Royal Northwest Mounted Police. The only thing that kept him out was the fact that he wasn’t able to qualify. Scotty was a bow-legged little Scot, with a tilted nose, a bushy head of sandy hair, and an exalted opinion of Scotty McKay.

Chuck Ring was a huge figure of a man, with a voice like a bull, a huge mop of black hair, and about as gentle as a playful grizzly. Chuck was prone to gross exaggerations. A single rattlesnake, according to Chuck, became a “million of the darned things.” At times his imagination soared to such heights that he even astonished Caldwell, who was no second-rate liar himself.

It was nearing the middle of the afternoon when Rance McCoy and Chuckwalla Ike came to Red Arrow. They tied their horses at the Eagle hitch-rack and went across the street to the Cattlemen’s Bank, where Rance McCoy drew enough money to cause the cashier considerable wonder.

“You’re pullin’ out quite a hunk, ain’tcha?” queried Chuckwalla, rather amazed at Rance.

“Why not?” asked Rance gloomily. “It ain’t worth nothin’ to me—now.”

Chuckwalla understood. Old Rance had saved for Lila. He had given Angel his share of the Circle Spade; so now there was no inducement left for him to make or save money. He gave Chuckwalla eighty dollars, and they went back to the street, where they stood on the edge of the wooden sidewalk and studied the situation.

“Whatcha want to do?” asked Rance.

“Git drunk,” said Chuckwalla. “O-o-o-oh, there is a land of co-o-o-orn and wi-i-i-ine, and all its riches truly mi-i-i-ine.”

“Don’t sing.”

“I forgot, Rance.”

They stepped off the sidewalk and went diagonally across the street and up to the Red Arrow Saloon. Rance had never been in the Eagle Saloon since Angel had bought it.

Butch Reimer was standing at the bar, talking with the bartender when Rance and Chuckwalla came in. Butch had been drinking quite heavily, and his tongue was noticeably thick.

“Hyah, Rance,” he said, grinning broadly. “Well, if here ain’t old Chuckwalla Ike! What’r yuh doin’—celebratin’ a birthday?”

“Yuh might say we are,” agreed Chuckwalla, yanking hard on one side of his mustache. “What’r yuh absorbin’, Butch?”

“Cawn juice,” drawled Butch. “Say, Rance, I heard yuh was lookin’ for Billy DuMond.”

Old Rance shot him a sidelong glance.

“Didja?”

“Yeah.”

They drank thirstily and clattered their glasses on the bar.

“Holy hell!” snorted Chuckwalla. “Either I’m gettin’ awful neck-tender, or they’re puttin’ dynamite in the hooch. I jist laid m’self a blister from gullet to gut. Whooee-e-e!”

“That stuff is twenty year old,” declared the bartender.

“Yeah, it’s shore got all its teeth.”

“You’re gettin’ old,” declared Butch, laughing.

“Like hell, I am!” flared Chuckwalla. “When I left Gila Flats I was the best man in a radius of fifty miles, and I been gettin’ better every day. I ain’t never run, and I ain’t never been whipped. Gimme more of that venom.”

For more than an hour they leaned against the bar and drank what was commonly known as “rot-gut.” Chuckwalla grew mellow, but it did not seem to affect old Rance. He became just a trifle more serious, more polite. Several times he hitched his holster to a more convenient position, and Butch blinked thoughtfully.

“You spoke about Billy DuMond,” reminded old Rance.

“Yeah, I did,” admitted Butch.

“He’s still with yuh, ain’t he?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Yeah.”

That was all. Old Rance took his drinks calmly. Chuckwalla sang bits of songs, using the same tune for all of them. Butch wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to warn Billy DuMond to keep out of Red Arrow. But Butch was getting rather drunk, and his friendship with DuMond became of less consequence with each successive drink.

Finally old Rance sighed deeply and announced his intentions of going to the Eagle Saloon.

“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Chuckwalla. “Le’s have a little action. C’mon.”

They went down the street to the Eagle, and went inside. Angel was in a poker game, and he looked curiously at his father and his two undeniably drunk companions. He felt that his father had absorbed just as much liquor as the other two.

They had a drink. Old Rance hooked his elbows over the top of the bar and gazed around his son’s premises. It was the first time he had ever been in there since Angel had owned it. Angel, apparently absorbed in his game, kept an eye on the old man, who walked steadily over to a black-jack table, where one cowboy was making two-bit bets, and threw down a twenty-dollar bill.

His two cards showed an ace and a jack—a natural—and the dealer paid him thirty dollars. Old Rance left the fifty on the board. He won on the next deal, and let the hundred ride. The dealer looked curiously at the hard-faced old man. Hundred-dollar bets were uncommon at black-jack.

Another ace and a jack fell to the old man, and the dealer counted out a hundred and fifty. That was left with the hundred, and again the old man won. There was now five hundred in front of old Rance.

“You playin’ for the pile?” queried the dealer.

Old Rance nodded. His two cards showed two kings. After a moment of inspection he drew out his roll of bills, counted out another five hundred, split the two kings, and indicated that he would make a double bet. His next two cards were an ace and a queen, making him twenty-one and twenty. The best the dealer could do was to make eighteen.

Slowly he counted out the money to old Rance—one thousand dollars. There was now two thousand on the board. The dealer wet his lips and stared at the old man. He shifted his gaze and looked at Angel, who got up from the poker game and came over to the black-jack layout.

“Deal,” said the old man. The dealer looked at Angel for some kind of a signal.

“Two-thousand-dollar bet,” said the dealer nervously.

“Hundred dollars is the limit,” said Angel softly.

Old Rance looked coldly upon his son.

“I thought yuh run a gamblin’-house,” he said. “Yuh can play for a hundred in the bunk-houses.”

“I’ve got sixty dollars in the bank,” said the dealer.

“Take yore money and go home,” said Angel.

“No nerve, eh?”

“I don’t want yore money.”

“You’re a liar—you’re jist scared.”

Angel flushed hotly and shoved the dealer aside, picking up the deck, facing the cards, and began shuffling them. The poker-players halted their game and came over to the layout.

“Two thousand dollars that you get the ace of spades,” said old Rance softly.

Angel did not look up from the cards, as he said:

“This is black-jack; place yore bets.”

“Two thousand,” said old Rance.

Angel dealt snappily, and old Rance’s hand showed a six and a deuce. Quickly he covered the cards, indicating that he would not draw. Angel turned over a king and a five. He studied them thoughtfully. He did not think there was a chance in a thousand that his father would stand pat on less than seventeen. Then he drew his card—a seven-spot—making him twenty-two.

With a flip of his fingers he turned over the old man’s cards—six and a deuce; a total of eight. For several moments he stared at his father. If he had stood on his original fifteen, he would have won the money.

“Mebby I’ll git a natural next deal,” said the old man. “Gimme my two thousand, and deal for the pile.”

“Four thousand?” whispered Angel haltingly.

“Shore. A natural would win me six thousand.”

Angel hesitated. Four thousand dollars was more than the Eagle could afford to lose. Still, he might win. It was against the law of averages for the old man to continue winning. He had won six times straight already.

“Deal ’em,” growled the old man.

Slowly Angel dealt the four cards. Old Rance turned his two cards face-up on the table—a ten and a five.

“Hit ’em,” he said.

Angel flipped the card to the table. It was a six, making old Rance’s count twenty-one. Angel turned over his cards, disclosing a jack and a seven, making a count of seventeen. If old Rance had not disclosed his hand, Angel would not have drawn. But now he was obliged to draw. His first card was a deuce. Angel swallowed heavily and flipped the next card. It was an ace. His hand counted twenty. Another ace would give him a tie with the old man.

With an exaggerated motion of his two hands holding the deck, he quickly stripped off a card and flipped it over. It was the ace of spades. Not a word was spoken for several moments.

“The house takes half of all ties,” said Angel coldly.

“You’ve got yore half,” said old Rance dully. “You never put up yore two thousand. Deal ’em ag’in.”

Angel shuffled them carefully, taking plenty of time, and when the old man cut the cards, no one seemed to know that Angel slipped the cut, and the cards were back where they were before the cut.

Old Rance drew a queen and a trey, while Angel’s hand showed an ace and a jack—a natural. He swept in the two thousand, a grin of derision on his lips. For a long time the old man looked down at the green top of the table. He heaved a deep sigh and dug down in his pocket, drawing out the money he had received from the bank. It totaled nineteen hundred and eighty dollars—what was left of his twenty-five hundred. He spread the bills out on the table.

“Deal,” he said softly.

“One bet?” asked Angel.

“Jist one.”

“You ort to deal, Rance,” said Chuckwalla.

Angel looked quickly at the old cook.

“Where do you come in on this?” he demanded.

“Jist the same, I think he ort to deal.”

“Oh, all right.”

Angel shoved the deck over to old Rance, who shuffled them carefully, and dealt himself a count of sixteen.

“You draw first,” said Angel. “You’re playin’ against the house.”

“I’m set. How many do yuh need.”

“I pay eighteen,” said Angel hoarsely, indicating that he had seventeen.

Old Rance shook his head sadly and turned away from the table. Angel smiled and looked for the deck of cards, as he picked up the money, but the deck had disappeared. The only cards on the table were the two two-card hands, with only old Rance’s two face-up.

“Who took that deck?” demanded Angel quickly.

But no one seemed to know. Old Rance and Chuckwalla were already outside the place.

“That’s damned funny!” snorted Angel hotly.

“You got damned well paid for it,” laughed one of the men.

“Yeah?” Angel swept up the money and went to the rear of the room. The loss of that deck seemed to annoy him. He came back and walked to a front window, where he looked out. Old Rance had gone into the Shanghai Cafe, but Chuckwalla was sitting on the sidewalk, looking through what appeared to be a deck of cards.

Old Chuckwalla was drunkenly deliberate. He sorted out the different suits, holding them between his knees. Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay came along, and stopped to watch the old cook.

“Ar-re ye fixin’ to tr-r-rim somebody?” asked Scotty.

“Betcher life,” grunted Chuckwalla.

“You’re drunk, Chuckwalla,” boomed Chuck Ring. “Lemme fix up yore deck. I shore can mingle a cold deck, if I’ve got plenty time.”

“Let ’em alone,” said Chuckwalla seriously. He put all the suits together, got unsteadily to his feet, and went into the cafe, where he found old Rance seated at a table. Chuckwalla sat down heavily at the opposite side of the table and leaned on his elbows.

“Rance,” he said solemnly, “you’re a fool.”

Old Rance squinted painfully at Chuckwalla, but said nothing.

“’F I remember rightly, yuh never even seen the seventeen that Angel had in his last hand.”

Rance shook his head slowly.

“Yuh had the king of clubs and the six of hearts, Rance. Look at this.”

Chuckwalla took the deck from his pocket and spread out the club and heart suits. It showed a missing king and a six-spot. Rance lifted his eyes and looked inquiringly at Chuckwalla, who spread the other two suits. The ten of diamonds, trey of spades, and the ace of spades were missing.

“He had the ten of diamonds and the trey of spades in his last hand,” said Chuckwalla angrily.

“What about that ace of spades?” asked old Rance.

“He held that out, you danged fool!” exploded Chuckwalla. “He stole that ace of spades to keep yuh from winnin’ four thousand dollars from him, and he stole it ag’in, t’ use in case he needed it.”

Old Rance shifted his eyes thoughtfully.

“’F I was you, I’d go back and kill him, Rance,” declared Chuckwalla. “Son or no son—he’s a thief.”

Old Rance turned his eyes back to Chuckwalla.

“He didn’t steal that last pot, Chuckwalla. He miscounted his hand. I should have looked at it.”

“He stole the ace of spades on yuh.”

“Did yuh see him steal it?”

“No, but he did.”

“Yuh can’t prove it, Chuckwalla.”

“I can’t prove he did—no! But it ain’t in the deck; so he must ’a’ stole it ag’in.”

“And that’s yore only evidence that he played crooked?”

“What more do yuh want?”

Old Rance slowly reached in his pocket and took out the ace of spades.

“The ace of spades is a fav’rite card of mine,” he said slowly. “And I don’t like to have folks use it ag’in’ me. What are yuh goin’ to eat, Chuckwalla?”

The old cook lifted his eyes from the ace of spades and looked at the bland-faced Chinaman, who was waiting to take their order.

“Got any crow, Charley?”

“Clow?” The Chinaman blinked.

“Big, black bird, Charley.”

“Oh, yessa; I sabe clow. Me no got. You like clow?”

“Sometimes I have t’ eat it, Charley. Better bring me some ham and aigs.”

CHAPTER V—FATHER AND SON

In the meantime Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay had gone to the Eagle, where they learned that Angel had won twenty-five hundred dollars from old Rance McCoy.

“That’s a lot of money,” declared Chuck, accepting a drink on the house. “I seen old Chuckwalla separatin’ the suits of a deck of cards over there on the sidewalk, and I wondered who he was tryin’ to freeze a deck onto. Here’s how, gents.”

“Separatin’ the suits, eh?” said Angel thoughtfully.

“I’ll bet that was yore deck,” said one of the men. “But what was his idea of separatin’ the suits, I wonder?”

“Probably tryin’ to see if it was a full deck,” laughed the bartender.

“Well, he ought to know it wasn’t. There was four cards left on the table. I saw Angel tear ’em up and throw ’em in a cuspidor. Old Chuckwalla Ike’s drunk.”

Angel nodded slowly, thoughtfully. He knew—and deep in his soul he cursed old Chuckwalla heartily, as he turned away from the bar and went back to his room.

“Kind of a funny deal,” said one of the men. “It ain’t none of my business, but nobody seen Angel’s cards on that last deal. He jist said he’d pay eighteen, which would indicate that he had seventeen. But did he? The old man walked right out, and Angel tore up them four cards.”

“He wouldn’t cheat his own father, would he?” asked Chuck.

“I didn’t say he did. But on one hand he drew a deuce, ace, ace, to tie the old man’s twenty-one.”

“That don’t pr-r-rove anythin’,” said Scotty.

“It don’t. But if it had been anythin’ but an ace, it would have busted the Eagle.”

“The divil looks after his own—mebby,” grinned Scotty.

“With a little personal assistance,” laughed Chuck. “But it’s nothin’ to us. Personally, I like Angel. The old man is a hard character. But as far as that’s concerned, none of us are growin’ any wings.”

Later on in the evening Billy DuMond came to town, and Angel took him to the hotel to see Lila. DuMond didn’t want to go. He had been sure to find out that Rance McCoy was not in town before he would come in, and he didn’t want to say anything more. But Angel insisted that he tell Lila all he knew about it.

They went up to Lila’s room, and Billy DuMond slouched on the edge of a hard chair, doubling his old hat in his nervous hands.

“Like I told Angel—I dunno anythin’,” he said to Lila. “I jist heard things a long time ago, and I—I prob’ly was drunk when I told Angel what I did.”

“What did you tell Angel?” asked Lila.

DuMond twisted the hat a few more times.

“Well, I dunno how true it is. A feller told me a long time ago that you wasn’t Rance McCoy’s girl. He said yore name was Stevens, and that old Rance killed yore father in a gun-fight. You was a little baby, I reckon, and there wasn’t no place to put yuh. Angel’s mother jist died a while before that, and somehow old Rance kinda adopted yuh.”

“And that is all you know about it?”

“Yes’m. I don’t want to git dragged into it, ma’am. It’s none of my business.”

“And my father’s name was Stevens?”

“That’s the name.”

“And where did all this happen?”

“I ain’t right sure,” said DuMond. “It seems to me that it was in the Twisted River country. This feller that told me about it mentioned a town named Medicine Tree. It’s been a long time ago, yuh know; and I might be mistaken.”

“Thank you very much,” said Lila.

“Oh, you’re welcome, ma’am.”

DuMond got to his feet, thankful that the interview was over.

“I—I hope yuh won’t say nothin’ to Rance McCoy.”

“Don’t mind him,” said Angel quickly.

“That’s all right t’ say,” DuMond grinned sourly.

After Billy DuMond had left the room, Angel asked Lila what she intended doing.

“You heard what I told the old man the other night, Lila. When I said I wanted to marry you, I told the truth.”

“But I don’t want to marry anybody—yet,” said Lila. “My mind is all upset and I hardly know what to do. Angel, I was wondering if they I have already engaged the teacher for the coming term of school? I could qualify, I think.”

“We can find out, Lila. I know the trustees. But I’d a lot rather have yuh marry me. I’m makin’ good money.”

“Not yet, Angel.”

“Well, all right,” grudgingly. “I’ll find out about the school. But you know what I told the old man, Lila. You’re goin’ to marry me some day. How are yuh fixed for money?”

“I have enough—if I get that school.”

“Well, if yuh need any—just yelp.”

Lila promised she would, and Angel went back to his business.

But in spite of the fact that Angel was well liked by the cattlemen of the Red Arrow country, his trade fell off badly in the following days. Where he had been able to use four dealers, he was now able to handle his games with but two men. On the next payday the Red Arrow Saloon got the big play.

Nothing was said, but Angel knew that in winning the twenty-five hundred from his father he had caused somebody to have a deep, dark suspicion that there had been something crooked about the game. And this suspicion had been voiced sufficiently to cause the gambling public to seek their games elsewhere.

Angel had made no effort to see the school trustees in behalf of Lila. He did not want her to teach the school. That savored too much of independence—and Angel did not want Lila to be independent. He did not know that she had seen them and had secured the position, because she did not mention it until everything was settled.

Old Rance McCoy received the news with a grim smile.

“Which means she ain’t aimin’ to marry that crooked son of yours, Rance,” observed old Chuckwalla thankfully.

“Yuh don’t know he’s crooked,” retorted Rance.

“Mebby not; but his games is all shot to hell.”

“Yuh mean that the gang has quit him, Chuckwalla?”

“Jist about, Rance. The Red Arrer is doin’ the bulk of separation. The fool and his money ain’t goin’ near the Eagle these days.”

“Chuckwalla, did you tell anybody about that deck?”

“Nossir. Didn’t need to, Rance. There was other men at that table, and they had eyes in their heads. I tell yuh, Angel made a big mistake.”

“Four thousand dollars would have busted him flat.”

“Nobody hates a square gambler that goes busted.”

“Do yuh reckon they’re sayin’ that Angel crooked me out of that twenty-five hundred?”

“Mebby not sayin’ it, Rance.”

“Believin’ it, anyway.”

“Somethin’ like that. I look for Angel to sell out or close up pretty quick.”

“He’s got everythin’ he owns tied up in the Eagle.”

“Owns!” snorted Chuckwalla. “He didn’t own anythin’. You was a big enough fool to give him a third of the Circle Spade stock. He didn’t deserve anythin’. You paid him a puncher’s salary since he was big enough to work, and then gave him that split of the stock. You’re a fool, Rance.”

“Mebby.”

“Mebby! Yuh make me sick. I suppose you’ll sell off half the stock you’ve got left and give the money to Lila.”

“She wouldn’t take it.”

“No, I don’t reckon she would. She always was an independent little critter. But Angel—well, he took anythin’ that wasn’t tied down. And you kinda favored him, Rance. I used to kinda wonder why it was, but since I heard what I did that night, I re’lize things. Blood is thicker’n water, after all is said and done.”

Old Rance turned and looked at Chuckwalla wistfully.

“Wasn’t I good to Lila?”

“Good? Shore yuh was. But yuh kinda favored Angel.”

“I’ve tried to be good to both of ’em, Chuckwalla.”

“I know yuh did, Rance. Hell, don’t mind me.”

“Yessir, I tried to be,” wearily. “It was pretty rough in them days—when my wife died. She left me with the baby. I didn’t know nothin’ about babies, Chuckwalla. But I learned about ’em.”

Old Rance smiled softly.

“Oh, I shore learned ’em. There wasn’t many wimmin in that country, and them that was here had plenty to do without helpin’ with mine. Packin’ a six-gun in one hand and a diaper in the other. And then—I took another, Chuckwalla. Them two was almost of an age. They couldn’t even talk English. Angel talked what sounded like a Cree language, while Lila runs pretty close to Navajo. I got so I could sabe both of ’em. It wasn’t no fun. My God, I turned milkmaid. Fact. Got me a cow.” Old Rance sighed deeply and shook his head. “She was a good cow.”

“And yuh worked like hell to raise ’em—for this.”

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t have this in mind, Chuckwalla.”

“Well, I reckon it’ll turn out all right, Rance. You’ve played the game straight with the kids. But you’re all through. They took the play away from yuh.”

Chuckwalla got up from the steps and started to go into the house, but stopped. Angel was riding in through the old ranch-house gate. He dismounted at the porch, and stood with one foot on the lower step. Old Rance glanced up from under the brim of his sombrero.

“Howdy, Angel,” he said.

“All right,” replied Angel thoughtfully, looking at Chuckwalla. “You might as well stay, Chuckwalla. I want to talk with both of yuh.”

Chuckwalla came back and leaned against a porch-post.

“I’m comin’ right down to brass tacks,” said Angel coldly. “What did you two say about me after that game the other day?”

Old Rance McCoy studied his son’s face for several moments.

“Just what do yuh mean, Angel?”

“Chuckwalla swiped the deck of cards,” said Angel slowly.

“I shore did!” snapped Chuckwalla. “And I found——”

“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Rance hoarsely. “This is for me to talk about, Chuckwalla. Now, what about the deck, Angel?”

“That’s what I want to know,” said Angel angrily. “Since that day I haven’t had two-bits worth of play in my place. I’ve had to cut down to one man, besides the bartender; and if this keeps up I’ll have to shut up the place. What I want to know is—what did you two say about me?”

Old Rance shook his head slowly.

“You’re wrong, Angel; we didn’t say a word to anybody. Was there somethin’ crooked about yore dealin’?”

“Didn’t say anythin’, eh?” Angel ignored the question.

“There was other men around the table,” reminded Chuckwalla. “They wasn’t blind, young feller.”

“You keep yore mouth out of this!” snapped Angel. “You took that deck over there on the sidewalk and—and——”

“And what?” demanded Chuckwalla. “You know what I done with it, Angel. Don’t start gettin’ tough with me, or I’ll hang yore hide on the fence.”

“Chuckwalla,” said Rance mildly, “I’d like to talk with Angel alone.”

“Shore thing.”

Chuckwalla went into the house and began preparing a meal.

“Well, go ahead and talk,” said Angel impatiently.

“You do the talkin’. You’re more interested than I am.”

“I’m sure interested enough,” agreed Angel. “Do you think I made a crooked deal against you?”