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  She smiled then, and changed the subject adroitly. "And you've grown famous since you went away. Everybody knows who Orin Locke is."

  "Never mind me," he protested. "Tell me about yourself."

  There was little to tell, she insisted. She was a dressmaker, and that was all there was to it. Judging by the room, he judged that she was not too prosperous.

  He left after a second piece of cake, with an invitation to come again.

  On the street Locke paused, debating where he should seek a room. As he hesitated, a stranger accosted him. "Got a match, feller?"

  "Yeah." Locke fumbled in a pocket and produced the match. The other man accepted it wordlessly, flicked it alight with his thumb nail and raised it toward the cigarette already between his lips. The light revealed a harsh bulldog face and a head hunched between massive shoulders. But there was scant time for Locke to make this appraisal.

  The flare of the match was close to his own face also, and as it flickered out without touching the tip of the cigarette, he sensed that the man had simply wanted to get a look at him. Now, satisfied with what he had seen, the man was bringing his other hand up in swift and deadly gesture, the muzzle of a gun centering at point-blank range on Locke's chest.

  3

  Though startled, Locke was too old a campaigner to be caught completely off-guard. The look in the other man's eyes telegraphed his intention, though it was only a split-second warning.

  The twin six-shooters in his own holsters were too far away. Already the muzzle of the other gun was centering on Locke's chest. But the killer had been forced to stand close so that the match would throw its light into Locke's face. Locke's knee came up in a plunging forward thrust, burying itself in the gunman's groin.

  Gasping with agony, the other man gave way, the gun wavering. An instant later Locke twisted it away, rage boiling in him at the callousness of the attack. While the other man still writhed, Locke clipped him alongside the head with the barrel of the forty-five, a damaging blow which drove his opponent to his knees, taking the fight out of him. Locke stood poised, gun ready for a second blow.

  "Who sent you to kill me?" he demanded. "Talk fast!"

  The gunman hesitated, cringing, throwing up a hand before his face. "I'll talk," he whined. "You're Locke, ain't you? Well, who'd send me after you except someone from Wagon Wheel?"

  Here was confirmation of what Locke had feared. Who else but Ray Locke would know or care that he was back in the country? Ray had manifestly been afraid, fearful that he might lose the things which he had acquired by treachery. It was grim, but he did not doubt that the man was telling the truth.

  Abruptly he turned away, walking fast. In the glare of brightly lit windows a sign reared above the boardwalk: Beer Bottle Saloon. An oversized beer bottle was suspended in a wire loop above the door, filled with what looked like liquor. But liquor would bring no surcease for what ailed him.

  Locke ate in a cheap and greasy restaurant, new since his day, cheap as the new Highpoint.

  Someone stopped beside his stool, a slight, wispy man with straw-colored hair and watery eyes. He squinted nearsightedly.

  "You Orin Locke?" he asked, and his voice was surprisingly deep and full—Locke studied him.

  "Locke's my name," Orin acknowledged. "Why?"

  "There's a couple fellers want to talk to you. Business."

  Locke hesitated, of a mind to refuse. Business! He knew what that meant. It was always the same when he came to a town, for his reputation preceded him. Still, what did it matter? What else was there for him, wherever he might go? The old zest was gone, and it could never be recaptured. Something in him, a part which had been sick for a long while, had died during the night. He might as well listen to what they had to say.

  He shrugged, tossed a silver dollar onto the counter and stood, looming tall in the gloom of the restaurant. "Lead the way," he invited. "Time is what I've got plenty of."

  "Orin Locke? For sheriff? Are you crazy?"

  It was a big room and, for Highpoint, remarkable, this office in the rear of the Wild Buttes Saloon. It contained luxury undreamed of by most citizens of the town, by the patrons of the outer room. Here was fine furniture, upholstered in leather. An Oriental rug covered the floor; an oil painting of good taste and considerable value hung on the wall. The other fittings showed the same careful selection; expense had been no consideration. There was no other room in the town like it.

  Nor were there other men in the Wild Buttes to match the two who conferred. Physically, both were big, but in different ways. Grant Cable, who lounged comfortably in a deep chair and smoked a long black cigar, was a perfect example of what the successful rancher and cattleman should be.

  He was in his early fifties, a tall man now putting on poundage. His dark brown hair was fringed with gray, and his face was big to match the nose, strong to measure up to the wide, firmly set mouth. Calmness dwelt in his eyes, in every deliberate gesture. A slightly mocking smile was in his eyes as he listened to his companion's incredulous exclamation.

  No one but King Steele would have thought of talking to Cable in such a manner. This was Steele's office, just as the Wild Buttes was his saloon. And everyone in the Wild Buttes knew that these two men, between them, held most of the power and wealth of town and country, that they controlled Highpoint and the Wild Buttes. Destiny was in their hands.

  Steele's were quick and nervous, yellow-stained from continual rolling of cigarettes. Scarcely had one been consumed before he was twisting at another. He was considerably younger than Cable, tall and broad, a man who walked with imperious stride as he jumped to his feet to pace back and forth, looking at the world from greenish eyes beneath hair almost completely colorless. But there was nothing colorless about the man. The room showed that he had wealth. Those who knew him understood the ruthlessness with which he had obtained it.

  Cable chuckled, flicking ash off his cigar.

  "Crazy?" he repeated. "I don't think so, King. You're not forgetting that Cassell is buried?"

  "Nor why," Steele snapped, "he was too headstrong to handle. But from all reports, this Orin Locke is even more so. I happen to know that Cassell was a sort of protege of his, once his deputy, and proud to pattern himself after him. Locke has a reputation to match that of Wild Bill Hickok, or Pat Garrett or any of that crowd. That's just the sort of sheriff we don't want."

  "I'm new since Locke left this part of the country," Cable said comfortably. "But compared to you, King, I'm an old-timer around here. Maybe I know a few things concerning local history that haven't come to your ears. You'll have to admit that, as far as the public is concerned, Orin Locke would be the perfect man for the job."

  "For the public, yes." Steele sat down jerkily, beginning to roll a fresh quirly, spilling some of the brown grains on the elaborate rug. "But maybe you don't know one part of recent history, Grant. It happened last night. I sent Toomey Harris to kill Locke!"

  The tip of the cigar twitched. Cable's eyes narrowed.

  "And he only hit town yesterday afternoon. Wasn't that rather precipitate?"

  "Maybe." The word was arrogant. "But I run the town, Grant, just as you run the country—that's our agreement. And it struck me that a man like him, coming here just after Cassell was buried, would be the popular choice for sheriff, and so could be a blasted nuisance. I've heard a lot of local history. So I got hold of Harris and took steps."

  He scratched a match and puffed jerkily, his face betraying none of the devious reasons behind this action.

  "And what happened?" Cable asked expectantly.

  Steele hunched his shoulders. "As I gather it, Toomey asked Locke for a match, scratched it in his face to see that he had the right man, and brought up his gun with his other hand at the same time. Apparently reports haven't been wrong about this star toter. He's a streak of lightning, if Toomey Harris's appearance is anything to go by. After being trapped that way, Locke took his gun away from him and worked him over. And I use the word advisedly."
/>   "That's interesting." Cable smoked, a smile at the corners of his mouth. "And you picked a man from the Wagon Wheel to do the job."

  "I figured Toomey was the man for such a chore."

  "You would. From your account I'm more convinced than ever that Locke is our man for sheriff. In fact, I sent for him, and if I'm not mistaken, he's here now. Come in," he called, as there was a peculiar knock on the door.

  The wispy man opened it, but did not enter. He stood back, and Locke, after a quick appraisal of the two men in the room, went on in. Cable came to his feet, and Steele was quick to follow.

  "Mr. Locke?" Cable asked, and extended his hand. "I'm Grant Cable, of the Three Sevens. This is King Steele, who owns this saloon and about half the town."

  Locke accepted their handshakes, studying both men. Cable waved him to a chair, observing that he had not bothered with any of the usual polite formalities. In fact, so far Locke had said not a word.

  "We've heard of you, of course," Cable went on. "That's natural. Perhaps you know that we buried our sheriff yesterday; it seemed providential that you should arrive as you did."

  "You gentlemen, I take it, are a committee to pick a sheriff to fill the vacancy till the next election?" Locke suggested.

  "Exactly," Cable agreed. "Whoever we recommend will receive the appointment."

  "I don't think I'd be interested in the job," Locke said bluntly. "There'd be strings attached."

  "In that, you're quite correct," Cable agreed with equal frankness. "There will be strings attached; that's why we're picking you."

  Steele looked at his companion in quick surprise. Locke eyed him with more interest. "At least you're frank about it."

  "I can afford to be," Cable replied. "You've probably guessed already that King and I control this country. What we want, we get. And the first rule in running a country is to put on a good show for the populace. The Caesars learned that a long while ago."

  "And you think I'd make a good front?"

  "We know you would. You've exactly the right reputation, and plenty of ability."

  Steele was watching, smoking furiously, but saying nothing. Locke looked from one to the other. "From all I've heard," he said, "there's a lot of lawlessness in this country. It could be stopped by the men who are bosses— if they wanted it stopped. I've heard since coming to town that Sheriff Cassell was killed because he was trying to clean things up."

  "Score yourself a hundred on that answer, Mr. Locke," Cable agreed smoothly.

  Locke's brows twitched. "And if I were marshal or sheriff, I'd run the job the same as I've always run it: to clean the town up. Which, I take it, is what you don't want. So, you see, you've got the wrong man."

  "Score fifty on that," Cable murmured. "You're partly right. We don't want the town cleaned up; but we have got the right man."

  "You figure you can bribe me?"

  "Naturally. Every man has a price." Cable lifted a deprecating hand. "Don't get me wrong. Some won't take money, and you're that sort. But you'll be perfect for the job, running it the way we want it run. And we can match your price."

  Locke relaxed, stretching his long legs before him. "This is interesting," he observed.

  "I hoped you'd find it so. You see, Locke, I know some things which most people merely think they know about. The public has pretty well forgotten, or chosen to forget, why you left the Wagon Wheel and the Wild Buttes. You've made such a reputation as a two-gun marshal, a town tamer, that you've shed a good bit of reflected glory on your old community. So they've chosen to forget that you left here with your father's curse in your ears, branded a thief who had stolen ten thousand dollars."

  Locke tensed, his jaw more rigid. "What about it?" he asked tonelessly.

  "Just this. As I say, I happen to know the truth about that—which truth few people even suspect. You shouldered the blame for a theft committed by your brother Ray, who was desperate because he had to pay a gambling debt. You took the blame because your father had a bad heart and any shock was likely to kill him. Any shock, that is, in connection with Ray, who was the apple of his eye and who, in his opinion, could do no wrong. What you did, however, came as no surprise to the old man. Ray had pulled the wool over his eyes until he believed anything bad about you."

  Steele had ceased to smoke. Locke slowly straightened, drawing his legs up again. He had supposed that this secret was deep buried; it was amazing to hear it from the lips of such a man as Grant Cable.

  "You're a strange man, Locke," Cable went on, and admiration crept into his tones. "I think I've delved until I found out the truth. You're a man. You love your father, despite the shabby way he's treated you, the opinion he has held of you. You not only shouldered the blame, to save his life, but you returned the money, taking every cent you'd been able to make and save to do so. Also, you gave up what was developing into a profitable business in buying and selling cattle. You paid back what you'd never stolen. You left Ray in control, not only of your father, but of the Wagon Wheel, half of which rightfully belongs to you. You left under a stigma and became an exile. You're a fool, but you're quite a man."

  Still Locke made no comment. He was somewhat dazed that this should be known, but it was true. Steele was rolling a fresh cigarette with hands which trembled. Cable's cigar had gone out. He lit it again, leaned with instinctive courtesy to hold the match for Steele, and puffed contemplatively.

  "You returned, Locke, because you had heard that your father was in a bad way. Finding him still of the same opinion, and in some respects in worse shape than before, you prepared to let sleeping dogs lie and ride out again. Very noble. You did it because you still love the old man."

  "And what's that to you—one way or the other?" Locke demanded.

  "Just this: it shows your weak point, and Steele and I are the sort of crass materialists who play on weaknesses. Your brother Ray has continued, during the years of your absence, to make a fool of himself. He still holds your father's trust and affection, but your father knows now that Ray isn't the plaster saint he once thought him. In fact, Ray got into a scrape a while back—Steele knows about that, and so do I—and to help him get out, your father killed a man."

  Locke's face lost its color. Cable viewed him blandly through the haze of smoke.

  "As a killing, it was quite justified and all that sort of thing. Still, it was a killing."

  Locke listened without surprise, compelled to believe him. The room was silent for a space. Even Steele was sitting quietly, gripped by the strange recital.

  "I had the power to smooth things over, which I did," Cable went on. "But I have signed papers and witnesses to what happened. If I saw fit, by using them, I could watch your father kick on a gallows. All quite legal."

  "I haven't done it. As long as you serve as sheriff, and serve as we want you to, he is safe. But only that long!"

  4

  Here was checkmate. Locke mulled it over soberly.

  "It's rather odd," he mused. "By your own admission, Cable, you're a scoundrel. Yet I have a feeling that if I take you up, your word will be good."

  "Every man has his private point of honor," Cable replied quietly. "I'm glad you appreciate that, Locke. As long as you work with us, we'll back you to the limit. Also, you'll get your share of the profits. All these years, you've risked your life for nothing more than a marshal's salary. Isn't it about time that you began to get something worthwhile? Your honesty has never paid off."

  That was true, though it scarcely sweetened the pill he was forced to swallow. Locke shrugged.

  "Get this," he said. "I'm not doing what you ask because of the money, or because I like your game. I'll string along, but only because I have to. I'll wear your star, but I won't like any part of it."

  "At least we understand each other." Cable shrugged. At his nod, Steele opened a drawer of his desk and tossed a shiny object across the room. Cable caught it in mid-air and handed it to Locke. It was a sheriff's star.

  "The committee will confirm our choice,"
he said. "That's just a formality. You're sheriff, and there's a certain amount of cleaning up to be done. The town has gotten rather out of hand lately. Elements from outside the county are trying to horn in, even getting notions about taking over. Those will have to be cleaned out. Here's the key to your office."

  Cable waited until Locke had gone, walking like a man not fully awake. Then he looked challengingly at Steele. "Well?"

  Steele grinned. "I'll have to give you credit," he confessed. "That's rather a different way to handle a man." He drummed thoughtfully on the desk with long, powerful fingers, the smile changing to a frown.

  "Maybe you can figure out this other, too," he went on. "Have you heard the talk that's going around about forming an organization of vigilantes to clean up the town?"

  "I've heard it," Cable agreed. "It sounds like a good idea, one that should be encouraged."

  "Are you crazy?" Steele reared back in stark amazement. "You know what such a group will be directed against—ourselves."

  "That's the second time you've asked me if I was crazy," Cable reminded him in high good-humor. "Of course a bunch of vigilantes will be aimed at us—only they don't know that. Yes, I think the time is ripe for such an organization. Let's work to see that it gets formed, by all means. We will be among the founders, charter members. Could you ask a sweeter set-up?"

  Slowly Steele's scowl vanished, to be replaced by a grin. "Old-Timer," he said, "my apologies. You're about as rough-looking as a moose, but those big fellows can slide through a maze of trees as easy as a shadow. So we go along with all the programs for civic improvement and for cleaning up the town. Our membership is a guarantee of our integrity, right? But what about our new sheriff? Doesn't the formation of a vigilance committee more or less reflect on him? It seems to show a lack of faith."

  Cable waved his cigar airily. "Not at all. In fact, quite the contrary. We have a new sheriff of the highest ability, of unimpeachable integrity—despite certain things which happened once upon a time. But he has a tough job, more than one man can be expected to handle. Why shouldn't the honest, substantial citizens, who see eye to eye with the law, work to assist him?"