CHAPTER I
WHEN Jim Torrance, riding up from the South, crested the live-oak-studded knoll from which he saw the rip-roaring little town of Sundown for the first time, the place looked as clean and pretty as a fresh picture, and as peaceful as the little dove cooing on a dead limb over his head. But that was because Sundown was still a good three miles away, and besides it was only mid-afternoon and not yet first-drink time.
Im turning off here to go into town, Skeeter, he told the boy helping him with his handful of stock. You go straight on with the horses. Youll know the place when you get there; just watch for an old wheel-track turning off where theres a dead pine leaning over a big white rock. Likely Ill overtake you anyhow. Its only about seven miles.
Gee, Jim, said Skeeter, me, Id like to see Sundown, too. Ive heard a lot about it.
Not today, kid. In two-three days Ill pay you off and you can ride where you please. Better hobble Barney and old Molly when you get there. Ill see if maybe I can get you a pie in town.
The boy, convoying the dozen head of likely looking saddle horses and the two heavily laden pack mules, rode on through the oaks, down the farther side of the knoll, into the straggling pines on the slopes beyond, and vanished in the creases of the hills which grew more rugged and more thickly timbered as they rolled away toward the far blue mountains in the north. Jim Torrance sat where he was a moment, rolling a thoughtful cigarette and looking toward Sundown with lazy-lidded eyes.
In the late October sunshine, as yellow as butter, under a sun-drenched sky as deep a violet hue as the towering mountains in the far background, at the end of a dusty road, wavering chalk-white across the valley lined with quivering aspens in their brilliant autumn dress, was a clutter of housesand that was Sundown, where colors clashed and laughed, the warm red of bricks, the white of adobe walls, the weathered brown of shake roofsand down in the valley there was a girl with a bright red neckerchief, riding a dappled gray horse. She was at considerable distance, on another road approaching Sundown from the north.
Jim Torrance and the girl rode into town at the same time; they were for an instant abreast as they came in front of Stag Horn Saloon. He was seeing many things today for the first time, since, on the single other occasion of coming into this neighborhood, he had kept straight on from the farther side of the knoll where he had left Skeeter, and had not come any nearer Sundown. So also for the first time he saw Sally Dawn Cannon. She did not appear to notice him at all, though at the sound of his horses hoofs she glanced his way. It was the most fleeting of glances, indifferent, flashing elsewhere.
He had the trick of taking in everything with those keen dark eyes of his, of registering swift impressions, of filing them away for possible future reference. He thought, Shes a little beauty if there ever was one. Not quite like other girls either, a sullen, smoldering beauty, with brooding, smoky eyes.
He passed her and dismounted under the big poplar with butter-yellow leaves that cast its black blot of shade in front of the saloon, and she rode straight on. As he jingled down to the edge of the wooden sidewalk, he turned his observant eyes upon the two men who were standing there; they were watching the girl go by and spoke of her.
Prettiest girl inside a hundred miles, Bordereau, said one of thema short, stocky, immensely broad man, dressed in store clothes like a town dweller, yet with the hard hands and weathered face of a rancher.
Yes, nodded Bordereau, and rolled his cigar and squinted after her. A tall, darkly handsome man in frock coat and high hat, quiet-voiced, even unctuous, it was a simple thing to mistake Steve Bordereau for a prosperous undertaker. Yes, he said again, shes been getting better looking all the-time. Classier now than Florinda, even.
If she was dressed right, shed be. Then the heavy-set man laughed. He said, Now if you just had a girl like her in your place, youd double your intake!
Steve Bordereau pursed a full lower lip.
Its an idea, Murdo. Ill get her.
Like hell you will!
Whats this, Thursday? Ill have her upstairs at midnight just exactly one week from tonight. Midnight Dressed right, too.
Bet? challenged Murdo. There was only one way to settle things with men like these two, one of whom owned and the other helped operate the Stag Horn.
Two to one, said Bordereau coolly. Five hundred of yours calls a thousand from me.
Murdo stared at him, seemed about to agree, then shook his head.
Youve got something up your sleeve, Steve. I know you. No bets.
Jim Torrance tied his horse at the hitching rail under the poplar, hung his spurs over the saddle horn and went into the saloon. There were not half a dozen men in the place, cattle hands from the look of them, and only one bartender behind the longest and most famous bar in this part of the country. Torrance photographed them all with that low-lidded glance characteristic of him; his survey began with the bartender and came back to him, taking stock of his pale-blue eyes, his pale, sleek hair that looked like the pictures in the barber shops, his mustaches like a buffalos horns. Jim Torrance spun a silver dollar on the bar, ordered his drink and asked:
Know anyone up around here named Jim Torrance?
Howdy, Stranger, said the bartender. He set forth bottle and glass and leaned forward conversationally on his elbows. Jim Torrance? he repeated. Cant say as I do. Whats he look like?
About my size and build, Torrance told him.
Whos he askin for, Jurgens? rapped out a voice from one of the men lounging over a round table farther down the room. Whats he want?
Youd be sure to ask, now, Sam, wouldnt you? grunted Jurgens. Well, hes asking for a man name of Torrance, Jim Torrance.
What you want him for, Stranger? demanded Sam, and got to his feet, a little dried-up man of fifty or thereabouts, seeming to rattle around in his blue overalls and faded blue denim shirt like a dried pea in a weathered pod. He had just about the shrewdest, brightest little eyes that ever twinkled and gleamed and widened and narrowed in a mans face, eyes that just now, and at most times, were as eager as a six-year-olds at Christmas time. He came hurrying forward.
