The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      "Lack of proof," murmured Denver. "One of the funny things about justice is you've got to establish guilt before you can punish. On that score, Redmain's as free as the birds of passage."

      "Everybody knows he's guilty," said Debbie. "That's enough."

      "So you've joined the vigilantes," grinned Denver. But he sobered quickly. "I doubt if he is ever arrested. I doubt if Sundown jail ever sees him. He'll go like all outlaws go—rough and sudden, out in the hills."

      "Something ought to be done," insisted Debbie, not to be shaken.

      "Something will be done," Denver reassured her. "And the result may surprise you as well as shock you."

      "A large round fact and no mistake," chimed in Steve.

      Debbie suppressed him with a single glance and rose. "Steve, I'm going shopping. Come help me carry bundles." Denver watched them depart with doubt on his face.

      "She sure treats him rough, Eve."

      "I think it's shameful. He stands everything from her."

      "Yeah," agreed Denver casually. "But there's just one thing she doesn't know about Mister Stephen Burt Steers. When he finally puts his foot down he does it firm enough to make the welkin ring."

      The two of them settled into comfortable silence, side by side, while the sun slid to the west.

      "Sunshine's nice," said he.

      "But soon gone."

      "Not while you're around, Eve."

      "Sounds fishy," said Eve skeptically, "but I like it."

      Lou Redmain went away from the hotel with clouded eyes. He maintained a set face until, beyond the end of the street, he swung to the north and climbed a wooded trail. And at that point, no longer under inspection, he let the accumulated resentment pour out of him.

      "A pariah, an outcast! Not fit to be touched, not good enough to be danced with! That is me—Lou Redmain! I could stand hatred from her better than the pity she showed! Good God, am I not a man like the rest? Haven't I got some decency in me she could see and make allowances for? No, never! I took my trail, and now I've got to travel it alone. I'm branded, and there is no hope of change. Damn them all!"

      Even then, swayed by fury, he looked cautiously about him and ducked into a stand of pines. At the head of the trail stood a small house, and he crept beside it guardedly until he saw Lola Monterey standing in the kitchen. The door was open, and through it came the soft, throaty hum of a song. He emerged from shelter and swiftly crossed over. She heard him and turned to the door; but the light in her eyes faded at sight of the man. And a jealous, protective rage swept over his body.

      "You were expectin' somebody. Who was it, Lola?"

      She shook her head. "Not you, Lou."

      "No? What are you doing up here—what kind of a place are you runnin'? By God, the last thing I'll let—"

      "Stop it! It is not your right to carry on so."

      He choked down his bitterness. "I suppose not. But I took good care of you once. I kept an eye on you. Seems like I'm still tryin' to."

      "Have I forgotten it?" she asked him. "What is the matter with you? Here you come storming down as if you were mad."

      "I reckon we're all mad," he muttered. "Anybody's mad to take life seriously. Mad as hell."

      "You have done something," she observed.

      "So. I walked in front of Sundown and asked Eve Leverage for a dance next week. What did I get? Pity!"

      "Did you think she would dance with you, Lou?"

      He stared at her. "Well, why not? What have you been hearin' about me, Lola?"

      "Many, many things. None of them good."

      "And you believe them?"

      "Look at me," said she softly, "and tell me none of these stories are true."

      He accepted the challenge, but of a sudden she was a blur before his eyes, and he dropped his head, groaning. "Why should I? Lola, you were one of the two people in the world I feared to have know about me."

      "So I must think of you as a man who once was gay and impulsive and kind—and now is only a memory of that man. Lou—what a fool you have been to throw away all that you might have been!"

      "What difference does it make?" he muttered defiantly. "I wasn't born to follow the herd. I was born to go the other way—what is wrong in that? Who has the power of telling me what is wrong? Nobody! The pack makes right—the pack makes wrong! That's all. If I don't run with the pack I'm not ashamed. I am my own law. I am as good as any!"

      "You are trying to put glory on your weaknesses. I hate that kind of a thing!"

      "Who are you to talk?" he retorted.

      He had struck her hard. She drew back, answering slowly, sadly, "Whatever my faults may have been, Lou, they have hurt only me. Never another soul in this world."

      The drum of a woodpecker sounded sharp and clear in the late afternoon. Redmain raised his hand with a queer gesture of finality. "I saw it coming. Nothing could keep it from you—about me. There isn't anybody left now who's got any illusions as to the kind of a man I am."

      "I remember the kind of a man you once were, Lou," she reminded him.

      "Three years ago," he broke in gruffly. "People don't stand still. They go on. They're pushed on. I couldn't be that kind of a fellow any more if I wanted. But the big thing is—I don't want to."

      "I am sorry for you."

      "I'm not!" he snapped. "The pack can't catch me, can't squeeze me into its ideas and morals. It never will. Before I'm through I'll show them all what a man can do of his free will."

      "Lou, you must not say that."

      He pursued his thought heedlessly. "I'll see you no more, Lola. I'll never come to Sundown again. This is the last time my welcome's any good here. Well, I'm sorry you know about me. But I'm glad to remember there was a time—"

      He saw the gleam of a tear in her eyes as she faced him. Down the trail was the sound of someone. Redmain retreated to the edge of the trees. David Denver was approaching the house.

      "Your man's comin', Lola," said he grimly. "Better take good care of him. He thinks he's neutral, but he ain't. He couldn't be if he wanted. I won't let him! It won't be long before we meet, and then you'll have somethin' to cry about. Before God you will!"

      He ducked from sight. On a dead run he descended through the trees, avoiding the trail, and aimed for Sundown's west end.

      "I'll do no dancin' next week," he panted, "I won't be there! But it is a dance none of 'em will ever forget. I'll see to that. From now on I play this game for all it's worth. From now on let them take care of themselves!"

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