There was a puzzled frown in her eyes, a faint flush tingeing her cheeks as, withdrawing her regard from Thornton’s departure, she looked to Templeton and asked quickly: 

“Why did he call Henry Pollard a rattlesnake?”

A faint smile for a moment threatened to drive the sternness away from Templeton’s lips.  But it was gone in a quick tightening of the mouth, and he answered briefly.

“He didn’t know that you knew Pollard.”

“I don’t know him,” she reminded him coolly.  “You will remember that I haven’t seen him since I was six years old.  I hardly know what he looks like.  But you haven’t answered me; why did your imprudent giant call him a rattlesnake?”

“They have had business dealings together,” he told her vaguely.  “Maybe they have disagreed about something.  Men out there are a little given to hard words, I think.”

She sat silent, leaning forward, tapping at her boot with her quirt.  Then quickly, just as the banker was opening his lips to speak of the other matter, she demanded: 

“Why did you call him a fool for bringing the money here?  It had to be brought, hadn’t it?”

“Yes!  That’s just it.  It had to be brought and there is not a man in all of the cattle country here who does not know all about the terms of the contract Thornton and Pollard made.  Ten thousand down, five thousand in three days from now, the other five thousand in six months.  Why, right now I wouldn’t attempt to carry five thousand dollars in cash over that wilderness trail if there were ten times the amount to come to me at the end of it!  It’s as mad as this thing you want to do.”

“He did it.”

“Yes,” shortly.  “He did it.”  He gathered up the loose money, pushed a button set in the table, and upon the prompt appearance of the cashier said crisply, “Five thousand to apply on the Pollard-Thornton agreement.  Put it in the big safe immediately.”

“He looks as though he could take care of himself,” the girl said thoughtfully when the money had gone.

Templeton whirled about upon her, his eyes blazing.

“Take care of himself!” he scoffed.  “What chance has a man to take care of himself when another man puts a rifle ball through his back?  What chance had Bill Varney of the Twin Dry Diggings stage only three weeks ago?  Varney is dead and the money he was carrying is gone, that’s the chance he had!  What chance has any man had for the last six months if he carried five hundred dollars on him and any one knew about it?  They chased off a dozen steers from Kemble’s place not three days ago, you yourself know what happened at Drury’s road house last night, and now Buck Thornton rides through the same country with five thousand dollars on him!”

“He did it,” she repeated again very softly, her eyes musing.

“And one of these days he’s going to find out how simple a matter it is for a gang like the gang operating in broad daylight in this country now to separate a fool and his money!  The Lord knows how a simple trick like coming in three days ahead of time fooled them.  It won’t do it again.”

“He is the type of man to succeed,” she went on, still musingly.

Templeton shrugged.

“We have our own business on our hands,” he said abruptly, looking at his watch.  “The stage leaves in half an hour.  Are you going to be reasonable?”

Then she stood up and smiled at him very brightly.

“The stage is going its way, Mr. Templeton.  I am going mine.”

Templeton flung down his pen with an access of irritation which brought a flicker of amusement into the bright grey eyes.  But the banker’s grim mouth did not relax; there was anger in the gesture with which he slammed a blotter down on the big yellow envelope on which his wet pen had fallen.  After his carefully precise fashion he was reaching for a fresh, clean envelope when the girl took the slightly soiled one from him.

“Thank you,” she said, rising and smiling down at him.  “But this will do just as well.  And now, if you’ll wish me good luck...”

She went out followed by a look of much grave speculation.

Meanwhile Buck Thornton, leading his horse after him, crossed the dusty street to the Last Chance saloon.  At the watering trough he watered his horse, and then, slackening the cinch a little, he went inside.  In the front part of the long, dreary room was the bar presided over by a gentleman in overalls, shirt sleeves and very black hair plastered close to his low forehead.  At the rear was the lunch counter where two Chinamen were serving soup and stew and coffee to half a dozen men.  Thornton, with one of his quick, sharp glances which missed nothing in the room, went to the bar.

“Hello, Blackie,” he said quietly.

The bartender, who in a leisure moment had been bending in deep absorption over an illustrated pink sheet spread on the bar, looked up quickly.  For a short second a little gleam as of surprise shone in his shoe-button eyes.  Then he put out his hand, shoving the pink sheet aside.

“Hello, Buck,” he cried genially.  “Where’d you blow in from?”

“Poison Hole,” briefly.  He spun a silver dollar on the bar and ignored the hand.

Blackie reached for bottle and glass, and putting them before the cowboy bestowed upon him a shrewd, searching look.

“What’s the news out your way, Buck?”

“Nothing.”  He tossed off his whiskey, took up his change and went on to the lunch counter.  Several men looked up at him; one or two nodded.  It was evident that the new owner of the Poison Hole was something of a stranger here.  He called an order to the Chinaman at the stove, told him that he’d be back in ten minutes and was in a hurry and went out to his horse.  The bartender watched him go but said nothing.

Within less than ten minutes Thornton had left his sorrel at the stable, seeing personally the animal had its grain, and had come back to the saloon.  Blackie, idle with his gazette unnoticed in front of him, saw him come in this time.

“In town for a little high life, Buck?” he queried listlessly.

“No.  Business.”  He passed on down toward the lunch counter, and then swinging about suddenly came back.  “Bank business,” he added quietly.  “I just paid my second instalment of five thousand dollars cash!”

For a moment he stood staring very steadily into the bartender’s eyes, a great deal of significance in his look.  Blackie returned his stare steadily.

“You’re lucky, Buck,” he offered colourlessly.

“Meaning to get the Poison Hole?  Yes.  It’s the best cow range I ever saw.”

“Meanin’ to pack five thousan’ aroun’ in your tail pocket an’ get away with it with this stick-up gang workin’ the country.”

Thornton shrugged his shoulders.

“There isn’t any gang,” he said, speaking as a man who knew.  “It’s one man with a confederate here and there maybe to keep him here.  Every job that has been pulled off yet was a one man job.”

Blackie polished his bar and shook his head.

“Jed Macintosh got cleaned out night before last,” he retorted.  “He’d made a clean-up right in here playin’ stud.  They got his wad before he’d gone to the end of the street.  That was more than a one man job.”

“Did Jed see more than one?” demanded Thornton sharply.

“No.  Jed didn’t see nothin’, I guess.  But we all seen the trail their horses made goin’ through Jed’s hayfield.  There was three horses any way.”

With no answer to this Thornton turned away, washed at the faucet near the back door, and settled his tall form upon one of the high stools at the counter.  He ate hungrily, with no remark to the men upon right and left of him.  But he heard their scraps of talk, noting that the one topic of conversation here in Dry Town was the work of the “stick-up party” manifesting itself in such episodes as the robbery and murder of Bill Varney, stage driver, the theft of Kemble’s cattle, the “cleanin’” of Jed Macintosh and, finally, the affair of last night at Poke Drury’s.  He listened with what seemed frank and only mild interest.

“It’s a funny thing to me,” one little dried-up old man with fierce moustaches and very gentle eyes was saying, “what we got a sheriff for.  This sort of gun play’s been runnin’ high for nigh on six months now, an’ Cole Dalton ain’t boarded anybody in his little ol’ jail any worse’n hoboes an’ drunks for so long it makes a feller wonder what a jail an’ a sheriff is for.”

“Give him time, Pop,” laughed a young rancher at his side.  “You know all that’s the matter with Cole Dalton is he’s got his election on the Republican ticket, an’ you ain’t never saw a man yet as wasn’t a Demmycrat as you’d admit was any ’count.  Give him time.  Cole knows what he’s doin’, an’ when he does git his rope on Mr. Badman he ain’t goin’ to need no jail.  Cole’ll give him a firs’ class funeral an’ save the county a board bill.”

Pop grunted, sniffed, and got to his feet to go to the door and watch the stage pull out.  At the rumble and creak of the great lumbering vehicle and the quick thud of the hoofs of the four running horses several men left the lunch counter and followed him.  Buck Thornton, finishing his own meal swiftly, went with the others.

Hap Smith took on fresh mail bags in front of the post-office, slammed back his brake, and with his long whip cracking like pistol shots over his leaders’ heads, drove on until he had passed the Last Chance.  And then he came to a halt again, his coach rocking and rolling on its great springs, in front of the bank.

“Hi, there,” he yelled mightily.  “Git a move on, will you?  I’m half a day late now.”

Mr. Templeton himself appeared on the instant at the door, a small strong box in his hands.  He tossed it up into the ready hands of the bull-necked, round-shouldered guard who sat at Hap Smith’s side with a rifle between his knees, the two passengers craned their necks with much interest, the guard bestowed the box under the seat, the driver loosened his reins, threw off his brake, and the stage rocked and rumbled down the street, spattering mud on either hand, racing away upon the last leg of its two hundred and fifty mile trip to the last town upon the far border of the great state.

“And Templeton called me a fool!” mused the tall cattle man, a look of vast contempt in his stern eyes.

He stood a little behind the other men, looking over their heads.  For only a fleeting second had his glance rested upon the stage at the bank.  Then he looked swiftly at the man in front of him.  It was Blackie, the bartender.  When Blackie turned abruptly Thornton looked squarely into the black eyes, seeing there an unusually beady brightness, something of the hint of a quick frown upon the thin slick line of the eyebrows.

“Driver and guard will both be needing their shooting irons before they see the border, Blackie,” Thornton said quietly.

And then with a short, insolent laugh he returned for the hat he had left hanging upon a nail.  Blackie, making no answer, followed, going behind his bar.  A little dusky red had crept up into his shallow face, his eyes burned hard into Thornton’s as the man from the Poison Hole came by him.

“When you goin’ back to the range, Buck?” he asked sharply.

“I’m going to start as soon as I can roll a smoke and saddle a horse,” Thornton answered him, a little smile in his eyes.  And then, as an after thought, “I follow the stage road for about ten miles before I turn off on the trail.  Wish I could stick with them clean through.”

“What for?” demanded Blackie in the same sharp tone.

“Oh, just to see the fun,” Thornton told him lightly.  “So long, Blackie.”

“You seem to be mighty sure something’s goin’ to be pulled off this trip.”

Thornton hung upon his heel, turning slowly.

“I am, Blackie,” he said carelessly.  And then, “Say, did you notice the two passengers in the stage?”

“No.”  He put a great deal of emphasis into the denial.  “Who was it?”

“I thought you might have noticed.  One of them was that crooked eyed jasper I saw you staking to free drinks the last time I was in town.”

He stared straight into the smaller man’s eyes, saw the colour deepen in his cheeks, shrugged his big shoulders and went to the door.  Several of the men who had come back into the room looked after him curiously, then as though for explanation, into Blackie’s narrowed eyes.  The bartender’s hand dropped swiftly out of sight under his bar.  Thornton’s back was turned square upon him.  And yet, as though he had seen the gesture and it had been full of significance to him, he whirled with a movement even quicker than Blackie’s had been, and standing loosely, his hands at his side, looked coolly into the bright black eyes.  For a moment no man moved.  Then Blackie, with a little sigh which sounded loudly in the quiet room, brought his hand back into sight, letting his fingers tap upon the bar.  Thornton smiled, turned again and stepped quickly out of the door.

“As long as they don’t get any closer to the Poison Hole it’s none of my funeral,” he muttered to himself.  “But if they do, I know one little man who could do a powerful lot of squealing with the proper inducement!”

Not turning once he passed swiftly down the street toward the stable, his meditative eyes upon the rocking stage sweeping on to the south-east, already drawing close to the first of the wooded foothills.  He waited ten minutes, watching his horse eating, and then saddled and rode out toward the hills.