Bunch Grass Part 49

Mintie tossed her head.

"If he wants you, the sooner you skin outer this the better."

"Uncle's well fixed," said Smoky, "and an old bach. He wants a live young man to take aholt with his ranch, and a live young woman to run the shebang. If I was married----!"

"Pity you ain't," said Mintie, without looking up.

Ransom, who had conducted his courting upon Western principles, rose up slowly and disappeared. Left alone with his beloved, the young man blushed and held his tongue.

"You think a heap o' the old man?" he hazarded, after an interminable pause.

"I do. He's a man, is Pap."

"Meanin'?"

"Anything you please."

"You mean that I ain't a man?"

Mintie laughed softly; and at that moment the old dog, lying by the hearth, got up and growled. Rebuked by Mintie, he continued growling, while the hair upon his aged back began to bristle with rage.

"Hark!" exclaimed Mintie.

They could hear voices outside. The dog barked furiously as somebody hammered hard upon the door.

"Who can it be?" said Mintie nervously.

Smoky Jack opened the door; four or five men came in. At the door opposite appeared Ransom.

"What is it?" he asked harshly. "What brings you here at this time o'

night?"

The leader of the party, a tall 'Piker,' answered as curtly--

"Business."

"What business?"

"I don't talk business afore wimmenfolks."

Mintie's face was white enough now, and her lips were quivering.

"Come you here, child," said her father.

He looked at her steadily.

"You go to bed an' stay there. Not a word! An' don't worry."

Mintie hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. Then she walked quietly out of the room.

"What brings you here?" repeated Ransom.

"Murder."

"Murder? Whose murder?"

"This afternoon," replied the 'Piker,' "Jake Farge was shot dead on your land, not a quarter of a mile from this yere house. His widder found him and come to me."

"Wal?"

"She says the shot that killed him must ha' bin fired 'bout six. She heard it, an' happened to look at the clock."

"Wal?"

"She swears that you fired it."

Smoky burst in impetuously--

"At six I kin swear that Pap was a-talkin' to me in his own corral."

The squatters glanced at each other. The 'Piker' laughed derisively.

"In love with his darter, ain't ye?"

"I am--and proud of it!"

"Them your guns?" The spokesman addressed Ransom, indicating the two rifles.

"One of 'em is mine; t'other belongs to Smoky."

The 'Piker' crossed the room, examined the rifles, opened each, and peered down the barrels. He glanced at the other squatters, and said laconically--

"Quite clean--as might be expected."

Ransom betrayed his surprise very slightly. He had just remembered that he had left an empty cartridge in his rifle, and that it was not clean.

The 'Piker' turned to him again.

"You claim that you know nothing o' this job?"

"Not a thing."

"And you?"

The big 'Piker' stared superciliously at Smoky.

"Same here," said Smoky.