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Show F I CT 1 CM I The Rustler Was a Gentleman 1 M IS Xll 1 By COLE RICHARDS j 1-' t I Cornev it, -- -.- .. . jX3Jjj He rode up close and whipped the rustler's gun from the holster. "Stretch the mred hands, high, mister.' THE riders, three men and a girl, burst from Ladrino Canyon like bullets fired into the dawn. Spurs flashing, whirlwinds rising from the hoofs of the straining horses, they pelted down on Kansas Terry. The girl was Toni Lee; the men, her foreman, Chuck Mayne, and her cowboys, Slats and Jimmy Gwinn. "Outa all New Mexico," the burly Mayne thought, exultantly, "we picked that there canyon to ride through. And here's our rustler, with a dead calf." His exultation was tinged with discomfort. Embarrassing, having a lady with them; he could only hope the men, on both sides, would gloss things over, sort of. Kansas Terry, the rustler, could have grabbed his pack pony's lead-rope lead-rope and vaulted into his saddle. He could have got away through the high greasewood, but he did not. He bent over the dead roan calf. The nickel conchos on his leather roping guard flashed with the swift turns of his wrist. He wiped and sheathed his bowie knife. Tall, lanky, easy in manner, he stood with his back to the party riding j toward him. The riders circled him at the gal-! gal-! lop, pulling the ponies to their haunches in sudden stop. Kansas Terry' s brown Stetson was shoved back, disclosing his j pale eyes, with their sly, mocking expression. He smiled sweetly. "Mornin. Miss Toni. Mornin', Chuck. Mornin', Slats. Mornin', Jimmy." Addressing the girl, he ' bowed from the hips. Kansas Terry's Ter-ry's good manners never failed him. Chuck Mayne's bushy brows met Dver his rugged face like storm clouds over the Bad Lands. "We got yuh this time, Kansas." "Now Ah wouldn't say so," Kansas Kan-sas Terry drawled, gently. Chuck Mayne felt uneasy. There was something about the mockery In Kansas Terry's pale eyes, something some-thing about the extra silk on his politeness, po-liteness, that said he wasn't caught by a long way. Toni Lee drew her fingers across her eyes as if a mist gathered there. A. slim girl, with wide-set eyes, gentility gen-tility showed on her as plainly as the silver bracelets on her brown wrists. "That there," Mayne asserted, "Is a calf out'n Miss Toni's herd." "That there," Terry returned, courteously, "is a maverick. There ain't a brand on it." ATAYNE swung out of the saddle. IV A The right side of the calf was up, the curly roan hair unmarred by branding iron. He heaved the carcass over. His heart turned over, too, and stopped. On the calf's flank a square as large as a man's hand glared bright red. The calf, strictly speaking, had no brand. The brand had been cut away. Chuck Mayne straightened up, with his fists on his hips. Outwardly cool, inside he seethed. "Regular cactus of a guy, ain't yuh?" he drawled, amiably. "Sharp and hard to grab." His own bowie flashed. He cut a similar square of hide from the roan flank. "This what you done?" Mayne hurled the soggy rawhide as far as he could. "Git it, Slats." Slats transferred the lead horses to Toni Lee. Touching spur to his pinto, he scooted to the piece of rawhide. Arriving there, he made a slow circle, and other circles inside in-side that. Slats could pick up a trail with any Indian. If the brand had ' been thrown he would have found it. "Nope," he said, at last. " Twas-n't Twas-n't throwed." Jimmy, dangling his loop, looked from the cottonwood in the canyon to the lanky, confident rustler. He shook his head. "Once a rustler cut a bran' thetaway. He stuff it down a prairie dog hole." "I heard," Slats put in, languidly, "of one jammin' a piece of hide down a calf's throat." "Look for itl " Mayne ordered. "Doggone it we caught this rascal redhanded." Kansas Terry looked at his hands, coolly and impersonally. He appeared ap-peared to find nothing wrong with them. His finger touched his throat, above the knotted red bandanna, as if a hemp noose rasped the flesh. The gesture made Mayne's hopes rise, but they thudded down when , Terry folded his arms and stood at ease. Muttering, "We 11 find thet brand," Mayne hurled himself into the search. He drove on Slats and Jimmy with a fury of energy. A sweating trio of men worked over the desert around the calf. They looked into mesquite and snarled cactus and prickly pear. They investigated four prairie dog holes, a badger hole and the throat 1 of the calf. "So th' calf ain't branded," Mayne said reluctantly. "Th' brand wasn't throwed, wasn't stuffed no- where, and it sure aint on yore person, per-son, or the blood 'ud give yuh away. But some day I'll git yuh agin." Kansas Terry smiled sweetly. "Ah'll be at yore service," he said, courteously, without a trace of gloating. "Goodbye, Miss Toni. Goodbye, Chuck. Goodbye, Slats. Goodbye, Jimmy." Addressing the girl, he bowed. "Yuh got doggone good manners," man-ners," Mayne scowled, "but yore a rustler, jest th' same." HpHE four riders made a cloud of dust along the escarpment. Kansas Kan-sas Terry stood motionless, watching watch-ing them. The riders vanished up a draw, but Terry stood immovable. He stared at the emptiness they left on the plain, for a long, long time. Once he readjusted the bandanna, and his fingers slid gingerly along his neck. His hand found the bowie knife, but left it in the sheath. The sun rose until the heat washed all the pale green and orange or-ange from the sky, leaving it a brazen blue. Terry's sorrel and the black pack-pony grazed farther and farther away. Still the rustler did not move, beyond shifting his feet to ease them, and rolling a cigarette. ciga-rette. At last he drew the bowie and took one step toward the calf. He tensed, sprang back, reached for his gun. Mayne, riding alone from the canyon, can-yon, shouted, "Jimmy's got a rifle on yuh, Kansas! Don't move!" He rode up close and whipped the rustler's rust-ler's gun from the holster. "Stretch them red hands, high, mister." "Matters stand jest as they did. Chuck." "Sho' don't I know it? Me an' Jimmy's been a-watchin yuh, while Slats got Toni away. Didn't want her to see yuh caught an' hung." "Thank yuh, sun," Terry said, sincerely. "But the brand still ain't in evidence." "No, but I got to thinkin' after I left yuh." Mayne shoved the gun muzzle under the brim of Terry's brown Stetson, and lifted the hat. Terry's curly hair had a strange tonsure a square of roan calf hide. "Figured it thetaway," Mayne said softly. "Yuh got too good manners, man-ners, Kansas, to stand in front of a lady with yore hat on." |