"A man is willin' to take her--trouble an' all," he responded, looking straight at her.

"Yes--if he can get her!" she shot back at him.

"Mostly every woman gets married to a man. I've got as good a chance as any other man."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're talkin' to me about it," he grinned. "If you wasn't considerin' me you wouldn't argue with me about it; you'd turn me down cold an' forget it."

"I suppose when a man is big and romantic-looking----"

"Oh, shucks, ma'am; you'll be havin' me gettin' a swelled head."

"He thinks that all he has to do is to look his best."

"I expect I've looked my worst since I've been here. I ain't had a chance to do any moonin' at you."

"I don't like men that 'moon,'" she declared.

"That's the reason I didn't do it," he said.

She laughed. "Now, tell me," she asked, "how you got your name, 'Deal.' It had something to do with cards, I suppose?"

"With weight," he said, looking soberly at her. "When I was born my dad looked at me sort of nonplussed. I was that big. 'There's a deal of him,' he told my mother. An' the name stuck. That ain't a lot mysterious."

"It was a convenient name to attach the 'Square' to," she said.

"I've earned it," he said earnestly. "An' I've had a mighty hard time provin' my right to wear it. There's men that will tempt you out of pure deviltry, an' others that will try to shoot such a fancy out of your system. But I didn't wear the 'Square' because I wanted to--folks hung it onto me without me askin'. That's one reason I left Tombstone; I'd got tired of posin' as an angel."

He saw her face grow thoughtful and a haunting expression come into her eyes.

"You haven't told me how he looked," she said.

Sanderson lied. He couldn't tell her of the dissipation he had seen in her brother's face, nor of the evilness that had been stamped there.

He drew a glowing picture of the man he had buried, and told her that had he lived her brother would have done her credit.

But Sanderson suffered no remorse over the lie. For he saw her eyes glow with pride, and he knew that the picture he had drawn would be the ideal of her memory for the future.

CHAPTER XVII

THE TRAIL HERD

Kent Williams went to Lazette, and Sanderson spent the interval during his departure and return in visiting the cattlemen and settlers in the basin. The result of these visits was a sheaf of contracts for water, the charge based on acreage, that reposed in Sanderson's pockets.

According to the terms of the contracts signed by the residents of the basin, Sanderson was to furnish water within one year.

The length of time, Sanderson decided, would tell the story of his success or failure. If he failed he would lose nothing, because of having the contracts with the settlers, and if he won the contracts would be valid.

Sanderson was determined to win. When after an absence of a week Williams returned, to announce that he had made arrangements for the material necessary to make a "regular" start, and that he had hired men and teams to transport the material, Sanderson's determination became grim. For Williams told him that he had "gone the limit," which meant that every cent to Sanderson's credit in the Lazette bank had been pledged to pay for the material the engineer had ordered.

"We're going to rush things from now on," Williams told Sanderson.

"Next week we'll need ten thousand dollars, at least."

Sanderson went into the house and had a long talk with Mary Bransford.

Coming out, he went to the corral, saddled Streak, and rode to Okar.

Shortly he was sitting at a desk opposite a little man who was the resident buyer for an eastern live-stock company.

"The Double A has three thousand head of cattle," Sanderson told the little man. "They've had good gra.s.s and plenty of water. They're fat, an' are good beef cattle. Thirty-three dollars is the market price.

What will you give for them, delivered to your corral here?"

The resident buyer looked uncomfortable. "I've had orders not to buy any more cattle for a time."

"Whose orders?" demanded Sanderson.

The resident buyer's face flushed and he looked more uncomfortable.

"My firm's orders!" he snapped.

Sanderson laughed grimly; he saw guilt in the resident buyer's eyes.

"Silverthorn's orders," he said shortly. At the other's emphatic negative Sanderson laughed again. "Maison's, then. Sure--Maison's,"

he added, as the other's flush deepened.

Sanderson got up. "Don't take it so hard," he advised the resident buyer. "I ain't goin' to bite you. What I'm wonderin' is, did Maison give you that order personally, or did you get it from your boss."

The buyer shifted uneasily in his chair, and did not look at Sanderson.

"Well," said the latter, "it don't make a heap of difference.

Good-bye," he said, as he went out. "If you get to feelin' mighty small an' mean you can remember that you're only one of the pack of coyotes that's makin' this town a disgrace to a dog kennel."

Sanderson returned to the Double A and found Mary in the house.

"No go," he informed her. "Maison an' Silverthorn an' Dale have antic.i.p.ated that move. We don't sell any cattle in Okar."

The girl's disappointment was deep.

"I suppose we may as well give up," she said.

Sanderson lifted her face to his.

"If you're goin' to talk that way I ain't goin' to love you like I thought I was," he grinned. "An' I'm sure wantin' to."

"I don't want to give up," she said.

"Meanin'?"