The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      "Beg to differ."

      Graney went into his coat pocket and affected to have trouble finding a slip of paper that he finally flourished. Charterhouse took it and saw a formal bill of sale from one Ramon de Rio, signed with considerable of a flourish.

      "Yeah. Legal and everything," drawled Charterhouse. "Who is this Ramon de Rio?"

      Seastrom's amused reply cut over Charterhouse's shoulder. "That one, huh? Well, Beef, you sure picked a good one. Ramon's dead up in the rocks of Red Draw. He missed his shot at Nickum."

      Charterhouse felt the effect of that statement. It audibly disturbed those back of him. Beef Graney dashed the sweat out of his eyes with a round oath. "What's that got to do with me? I paid for that horse. Yeah, I know it used to be yours, Charterhouse. Ramon bought it from you in town yesterday."

      "Oh, you've got it worked out that complete?" said Charterhouse. "Too bad. It ain't the true facts, even if Ramon said so, which I'm inclined some to doubt."

      "Be careful of your words," Graney warned him. "You'll stand accountable for them."

      "Willing to," averred Charterhouse. "Now the next move seems to be up to me. Which I will make, according to rule. This is my horse. It always was, and it always will be. You've had your little ride in a white man's saddle and that's all you'll get."

      "Stay away from that horse, Charterhouse!"

      "Boys," broke in Wolfert. "I'll have no shooting around Angels. Take your troubles to the judge."

      "Very noble," applauded Charterhouse. "Sorry I can't look around to congratulate your sentiments. Mister Graney, I intend to step slowly back to the horse, take the reins, and step aboard."

      "When you touch the ribbons, you'll have to draw!" snapped Graney and tried again to clear the sweat out of his eyes. Charterhouse took a backward pace and halted. A rider came posting into Angels from the east, kicking up a high cloud of plaza dust. He cut across to the saloon and sprang down before the pony had completely stopped—Buck Manners. He showed his usual cheerful manner, but it was instantly repressed at sight of Graney and Charterhouse confronting each other so cagily.

      "Now what?"

      "A little dicker about horses," called Nickum. "Stay aside, Buck."

      Manners scanned the plaza with a quick glance. "Listen, why fight? Let's get these fellows to talk it over and come to a peaceful—"

      "Stay aside, Buck," repeated Nickum gruffly. "I'm waiting to see if a yellow dog will actually fight in the open. Get off your horse before somebody takes you for a target."

      Manners stared at Graney. "You sure that's your horse, Beef?"

      "I said it," retorted Graney, "and I ain't backing down now."

      "All right. No objections from me. A free and open fight. Leave 'em alone, everybody." There was a rising ring of authority in his words. "Get out of range, Wolfert, you dummy."

      "Say, Manners—"

      "Shut up. If it's going to be a fight, I'll help see it's on the level."

      "You touch that horse, Charterhouse," repeated Graney, furrows of worry coming to his forehead, "and you take a slug."

      Charterhouse stepped deliberately back and whipped the dangling reins with his left hand, letting them drop the following instant. He had called Graney's bluff and across the interval he saw the heavy fellow's face, dripping wet, swing slowly from side to side, containing a mixture of puzzlement and anger. Quite obviously he had missed the fighting moment; during the delay he appeared to be struggling with unforeseen circumstances and trying to adjust himself to them. The crowd stood rooted, without a sound; Charterhouse never let his attention stray. Graney's eyes burned against him, increasingly intent, and Graney's body was pitched a little forward as if ready to send all his muscles into a mighty effort. Then Buck Manners laughed outright and said ironically, "Somebody get a camera and snap this comic opera. Charterhouse—"

      Charterhouse turned his head slightly to catch Manners' face. Graney moved. His palm slapped against leather in the utter stillness. His rounding body plunged aside with the lift and explosion of his gun. Charterhouse, never moving out of his tracks, worked with the smoothness of an automatic machine and hardly was conscious of his draw until the smash of his own revolver beat against him and his wrist kicked back with the weapon's recoil. Graney stiffened, all his chubby face beaded in big globes of sweat; a leer of pain stamped his lips, but there was again the roar of a shot, and as the echo of it rocketed away into the droning heat of Angels, Graney emitted a cracked, forlorn cry and dropped straight down. Charter-house heard him mutter, "Manners!" and that was all.

      The tendrils of gun smoke eddied into Charterhouse's nostrils. Swinging toward Manners he spoke in a dry, distant voice that seemed not his own. "Was you aiming to take my attention away from Graney when he was about to draw?"

      Manners stared at the dead man with an unusual soberness. "Don't be a damned fool, Charterhouse. I wanted you to put up your gun. I would have covered him myself while we talked the business over. He knew he was on the poor end of the bluff and I don't think he wanted to go through with it. Sorry for the fellow, but it was his own making."

      Charterhouse turned around. Seastrom and old John Nickum were standing shoulder to shoulder against the saloon wall. Haggerty was also against the wall but slightly removed from them. On the outer edge of the walk Studd and Wolfert were posted; so the opposing parties stood, saying nothing, watching for anything. At the far end of the street a man came suddenly around a building with a rifle half lifted and ducked back. Charterhouse challenged Wolfert.

      "Any inclination to serve that warrant on me, Sheriff?"

      "I'm trying to get along with you men," muttered Wolfert. "Don't make it hard for me. I ain't tried to serve no warrant, have I? Blamed if I don't think I'll turn in my star. Public official in this county just gets kicked from corner to corner. No thanks and plumb little pay."

      Old John Nickum shot a coldly triumphant glance at Wolfert and Studd. "Why don't you go through with it? What's stopping you?"

      "Through with what?" Studd wanted to know.

      "Don't fake with me," snorted Nickum. "You had a killing ribbed up. I'm too old not to understand the signs. You boys are pretty crude in your ways. What's all those men posted around for? Reckon I ain't seen 'em waiting to get a fair shot? Hell, Studd, you're clumsy. Graney was the only one with guts enough to go through with his play. None of you others had sand enough to back him up."

      "You still got me wrong," complained Studd and spread his broad paws outward.

      "Looks to me," broke in Manners, "as if I was going to have to station about twenty of my men in this town to keep it straight. If you can't keep order, Wolfert, you'd better resign. It's a poor day when Angels turns against Box M. I've tried to maintain a fair and open place with the whole county, but I will not stand by and see John Nickum injured. First thing you know, Box M will come into Angels and give it a clean-up."

      "Yellow dogs never fight in the open," boomed Nickum. "Come to the hotel, Buck, and let's transact our business."

      The two of them strolled over to Madame LeSeur's. Twenty minutes later they came out again. Nickum found his party waiting for him in the shade of the stable.

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