“I ain’t always so durned sure you’re goin’ to marry me,” he said gloomily. “You’ve ben pretty thick with thet feller Corson, an’ he’s sweet on you—enny fool c’d tell thet.”

  “Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed Lillian Manill, laughing lightly; “why, Maurice is only like a big brother to me. Now give me a kiss and tell me that you won’t let Diana or anyone else steal all our money.” She drew his face down to hers and their lips met in a long kiss.

  When they separated Colby was panting heavily. “Gawd!” he exclaimed huskily. “I’d commit murder fer you.”

  In the shadows of the hall stood Maurice B. Corson, scowling darkly upon them through the partially opened doorway. Presently he coughed discreetly and a moment later entered the room, where he found Lillian idly turning sheets of music at the piano, while Colby was industriously studying a picture that hung against the wall.

  Corson accosted them with a pleasant word and a jovial smile, and a minute later Diana Henders entered the room and the four went in to supper. The meal, like its predecessors for some weeks, was marked by noticeable constraint. The bulk of the conversation revolved about the weather, about the only thing that these four seemed to have in common that might be openly discussed, and as Arizona summer weather does not offer a wide field for discussion the meals were not conspicuous for the conversational heights attained. Nor was this one any exception to the rule. When it was nearly over Carson cleared his throat as is the habit of many when about to open an unpleasant subject after long deliberation.

  “Miss Henders,” he commenced.

  Hal Colby arose. “I gotta see Bull before he leaves,” he announced hastily, and left the room.

  Corson started again. “Miss Henders,” he repeated, “I have a painful duty to perform. I have tried to work in harmony with you, but I have never met with any cooperation on your part, and so I am forced to reveal a fact that we might successfully have gotten around had you been willing to abide by my judgment in the matter of the sale of the property.”

  “And what fact is that?” asked Diana, politely.

  “We will get to it presently,” he told her. “Now, my dear young lady, your father’s death has left you in very unfortunate circumstances, but, of course, as is natural, Miss Manill wants to do what she can for you.”

  “I am afraid that I do not understand,” said Diana. “Lillian and I have suffered equally in the loss of our fathers and uncles, and together we have inherited the responsibilities of a rather large and sometimes cumbersome business. I am sure that we wish to help one another as much as possible —I as much as she.”

  “I am afraid that you do not understand, Miss Henders,” said Corson, solemnly. “By the terms of your uncle’s will everything would have gone to your father had he survived Mr. Manill, but he did not. Your father made a similar will, leaving everything to your uncle. So you see, Miss Henders!” Corson spread his palms and raised his brows in a gesture of helplessness.

  “I must be very dense,” said Diana, “for I am sure I do not know even yet what you are driving at, Mr. Corson.”

  “It is just this,” he explained; “your father left everything to your uncle—your uncle left everything to his daughter. It is very sad, Miss Henders—Miss Manill has grieved over it a great deal; but the law is clear—it leaves you penniless.”

  “But it is not what was intended and there must be another will,” exclaimed Diana. “Uncle John and Dad both wished that, when they were gone, the estate should be divided equally between their lawful heirs—half and half. Dad left such a will and it was his understanding that Uncle John had done likewise—and I know he must have for he was the soul of honor. Their wills were identical—Dad has told me so more than once. They had such implicit confidence in one another that each left everything to the other with the distinct understanding that eventually it all was to go to the heirs of both, as I have explained.”

  “I do not doubt that your father left such a will, if you say he did; but the fact remains that Mr. Manill did not,” said Mr. Corson, emphatically.

  “But you shall not want, Miss Henders. Your cousin will see to that. She has already authorized me to arrange for an annuity that will keep you from want until you are married—we thought best not to continue it beyond that time for obvious reasons.”

  “You mean,” asked Diana, dully, “that I have nothing? That I am a pauper—that even this roof under which I have lived nearly all my life does not belong, even in part, to me—that I have no right here?”

  “Oh, please, don’t say that, dear!” exclaimed Lillian Manill. “You shall stay here just as long as you wish. You will always be welcome in my home.”

  “My home!” Diana suppressed a sob that was partially grief and partially rage. The injustice of it! To take advantage of a technicality to rob her of all that rightly belonged to her. She was glad though that they had come out into the open at last—why had they not done so before?

  “Of course,” said Corson, “as Miss Manill says, you are welcome to remain here as long as the property is in her hands, but, as you know, we have received an advantageous offer for it and so it is only fair to tell you that you might as well make your plans accordingly.”

  “You are going to sell to Wainright for two hundred and fifty thousand?” asked Diana.

  Corson nodded. Diana rose and walked the length of the room, then she turned and faced them. “No, you are not going to sell, Mr. Corson, if there is any way in which I can prevent it. You are not going to steal my property so easily. Why have you been attempting all these weeks to persuade me to agree to a sale if you knew all along that I had no interest whatsoever in the property?” she demanded suddenly.

  “That was solely due to a desire on our part to make it as easy as possible for you,” he explained, suavely. “Your cousin would have given you half the purchase price rather than have had to tell you the truth, Miss Henders; but you have forced it upon us. She desires to sell. It is her property. You alone stood in the way. You have been your own worst enemy, Miss Henders. You might have had one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars had you not been stubborn—now you must be content with whatever Miss Manill sees fit to allow you in the way of annuity.”

  Diana squared her shoulders as she faced them. “Miss Manill shall give me nothing—I will not accept as a gratuity what rightfully belongs to me. If you think, Mr. Corson, that you are going to take my property away from me without a fight, you are mistaken,” and she wheeled about and started for the doorway.

  “Wait a moment, Miss Henders!” cried the New Yorker. “I am a lawyer and I know how expensive litigation is. Such a case as you contemplate, and I take it for granted that you purpose taking the matter to court when you say ‘fight,’ might drag on for years, wasting the entire property in attorneys’ fees and legal expense, so that neither of you would get anything—I have seen such things happen scores of times.

  “Now, let us rather compromise. We were willing to make you a gift of half the purchase price immediately on the consummation of the sale to Mr. Wainright. That offer is still open. It is extremely fair and generous and if you will take my advice you will accept it.”

  “Never!” snapped Diana.

  Corson and Lillian sat in silence listening to Diana’s foot-falls as she ascended the stairs. Presently they heard her door close, then the girl turned upon Corson. “You poor sucker, you!” she exclaimed. “What do you think you are, offering her a hundred and twenty-five thousand when we don’t have to give her a cent!”

  “Don’t be a hog, Lill,” advised the man. “We’ll get enough, and if we can save a lot of trouble we’d better let her have the hundred and twenty-five. You can’t tell what these people out here’ll do.

  “Take that Bull fellow, for instance—he’s already offered to run us out of the country if she says to. Look what he did to old man Wainright, for instance. Why, say, there are a lot of her friends here that would think no more of shooting us full of holes than they would of eating their Sunday dinners, if she just so much as hinted that she thought we were trying to do her out of anything.

  “And we’ll be getting plenty, anyway—you and I get a third and Wainright gets the other third—and that mine is worth millions. Why, we could afford to give her the whole two hundred and fifty thousand dollars if she’d agree to the sale.”

  “I’m not so keen as you on giving my money away,” replied Lillian.

  “Your money, hell,” he replied. “You wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for me, and as for that measly little hundred and twenty-five thousand, why, it’ll cost us all of that to square these people around here before we get through with it—I’ve promised Colby ten thousand already, and say, speaking of Colby, I saw you two in the sitting room before supper. You got to lay off that business—you’re getting too thick with that fellow to suit me. You belong to me,” he added suddenly and fiercely.

  “Oh, come on, Maurice, don’t be silly,” replied Lillian. “You told me to get him on our side. How did you suppose I was going to do it—by making faces at him?”

  “Well, you don’t have to go too far. I heard you telling him what you two would do after you were married. You may be a good little actress, Lill, but that kiss you gave him looked too damn realistic to suit me. I’m not going to have you running off with him after you get your mitts on a little money.”

  “Say, you don’t think I’d marry that rube, do you?” and Lillian Manill burst into peals of laughter.

  Colby found Bull in the bunk-house.

  “Bull,” he said, “I wish you’d ride up Belter’s tomorrer an’ see how the water’s holdin’ out.”

  “Listen, Bull,” said Texas Pete, “I got the rest of it:

  “An’ so we lines up at the bar, twelve or more;

  The boss tries to smile, but he caint, he’s so sore.

  The stranger says: ‘Pronto! you dum little runt.’

  Jest then we hears someone come in at the front,

  “An’ turnin’ to look we see there in the door

  A thin little woman—my gosh, she was pore!

  Who lets her eyes range ‘til they rest on this bloke

  With funny ideas about what was a joke.

  “She walks right acrost an’ takes holt o’ his ear.

  ‘You orn’ry old buzzard,’ she says, ‘you come here!’

  He gives us a smile thet was knock-kneed an’ lame,

  An’, ‘Yes, dear, I’m comin’!’ he says, an’ he came.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE NECKTIE PARTY

  When Diana Henders left the dining room after hearing Corson’s explanation of her status as an heir to the estate of her father and uncle she definitely severed relations with the two whom she now firmly believed had entered into a conspiracy to rob her of her all. The following day she ate her meals in the kitchen with Wong to whom she confided her troubles. The old Chinaman listened intently until she was through, then he arose and crossed the kitchen to a cupboard, a crafty smile playing over his wrinkled, yellow countenance.

  “Me fixee-me no likum,” he said, as he returned with a phial of white powder in his hand.

  “O, Wong! No! No!” cried the girl, grasping instantly the faithful servitor’s intent. “You mustn’t do anything so horrible as that. Promise me that you won’t.”

  “All lightee jest samee you say,” he replied with a shrug, and returned the phial to the cupboard.

  “I’m going away tonight, Wong,” she told him, “and I want you to promise me that nothing like that will happen while I am away and that you will stay until I return. There is no one else I could trust to look after the house.”

  “You clomee backee?”

  “Yes, Wong, I’m going to Hendersville tonight so that I can catch the stage for Aldea in the morning. I am going to take the train for Kansas City and consult some of Dad’s friends and get them to recommend a good lawyer. You’ll take care of things for me, Wong?”

  “You bletee blootee!”

  That afternoon she sent for Hal Colby wid told him what Corson had said to her. Colby seemed ill at ease and embarrassed.

  “I’m mighty sorry, Di,” he said, but I don’t see what you kin do about it. If I was you I’d accept half the purchase price. They got you dead-to-rights an’ you won’t make no money fightin’ ‘em.”

  “Well, I won’t accept it, and I’m surprised that you’d advise me to.”

  “It’s only fer your own good, Di,” he assured her. “It ain’t Lillian’s fault that your uncle done your dad outen the property. You cain’t blame her fer wantin’ what was left to her an’ I think it was mighty pretty of her to offer to split with you.”

  “I don’t,” she replied, “and I think there is something behind that offer that is not apparent on the face of it. I am going to find out, too. I’m going to Kansas City to hire a lawyer and I’ll want the buckboard and one of the men to drive me to town after supper tonight.”

  “I’m plumb sorry, Di, but Corson an’ Lillian have took the buckboard to town already.”

  “Then I’ll go on Captain,” she said. “Please have him saddled for me right after supper.”

  She packed her traveling dress and other necessary articles in a small bag that could be tied to a saddle, leaving on her buckskin skirt and blouse for the ride to town, and after supper made her way to the corral after waiting a few minutes for Captain to be brought to the house and rather wondering why Hal had neglected to do sir.

  To her surprise she discovered that Captain had not even been saddled, and was, as a matter of fact, still running in the pasture a mile from the house. She went to the bunk-house to get one of the men to catch him up, but found it deserted. Prom there she walked to the cook-house, where she found only the cook setting bread for the morrow.

  “Where are all the men?” she asked.

  “They’s a dance to Johnson’s tonight an’ some of ‘em went there,” he told her. “The rest went to town. Idaho, Shorty an’ Pete went to the dance.”

  “Where’s Hal?”

  “I reckon he went to town—I ain’t seen him since this arternoon some time.”

  “Did Willie go too?”

  “No’m, he’s here sommers—hey, Willie! You Willie!”

  Willie appeared from the outer dusk. “Oh, Willie,” said Diana, “won’t you please catch Captain up for me and saddle him?”

  “You ain’t goin’ to ride tonight all alone, be you?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to get to town, Willie, and Hal forgot to tell anyone to ride with me,” she explained.

  “Well, I’ll go along with you,” said Willie. “I’ll have the hosses saddled pronto,” and off he ran.

  Ten minutes later they were in the saddle and loping through the rapidly falling night toward town.

  “I can’t understand how Hal happened to let all the boys go at the same time,” she said, half musingly. “It was never done before and it isn’t safe.”

  “Bull wouldn’t never have done it,” said Willie. “Bull was a top-notch foreman.”

  “You like Bull?” she asked.

  “You bet I do,” declared Willie, emphatically; “don’t you?”

  “I like all the boys,” she replied.

  “Bull wouldn’t never have left you here alone at night. He set a heap o’ store by you, Miss.” Willie was emboldened to speak freely because of the darkness that would cover any sudden embarrassment he might feel if he went too far. The same darkness covered Diana’s flush—a flush of contrition that she harbored a belief in Bull’s villainy.

  Before they entered Hendersville they became aware that something unusual was going on in town. They could hear the hum of excited voices above which rose an occasional shout, and as they rode into the single street they saw a hundred figures surging to and fro before Gum’s Place. A man stood on the veranda of the saloon haranguing the crowd.

  “This business has gone fer enough,” he was saying as Diana and Willie paused at the outskirts of the crowd. “It’s high time we put a end to it. You all knows who’s a—Join’ it as well as I do. What we orter do is ride out ‘n git him tonight—they’s a bunch o’ cottonwoods where he is right handy an’ we got plenty o’ ropes in the cow-country. Who’s with me?”

  Two score voices yelled in savage assurance of their owners’ hearty cooperation.

  “Then git your broncs,” cried the speaker, “an’ we’ll go after him an’ git him!”

  Diana saw that the orator was Hal Colby. She turned to one of the men who was remaining as the majority of the others hastened after their ponies.

  “What is it all about?” she asked. “What has happened?”

  The man looked up at her, and as he recognized her, pulled off his hat awkwardly. “Oh, it’s you, Miss Henders! Well, you see, the stage was held up ag’in today an’ Mack Harber was kilt—it was his first trip since he was wounded that time. It was the first trip, too, since Bull quit guardin’ the gold, an’ a lot o’ the fellers has got it in their heads thet it’s Bull as done it.

  “’Tain’t no sech thing!” cried a little old man, near-by, “’tain’t Bull.”

  The speaker was Wildcat Bob. “I don’t like to think so neither,” said the first man; “but it shore looks bad fer him—the fellers is all bet up. There ain’t one in thet crowd but what would lynch his grin—maw ef he had another drink, an’ they sure hev had plenty—Gum’s bee settin’ ‘em up in there fer a couple hours on the house. Never did see Gum so plumb liberal.”