Beasley stormed and raged. His riders sat or lounged, with lowered faces. An unspoken hostility seemed present. Those who had been longest with him were least distant and strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley roared for his Mexicans.
"Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes sloped -- gone these two hours -- on the way to Magdalena,"said Buck Weaver.
Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was the most astounding. Beasley cursed with his questioning wonder.
"Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin' cowboy from Texas," replied Weaver, imperturbably.
Beasley's dark, swarthy face changed its hue. What of the subtle reflection in Weaver's slow speech! One of the men came out of a corral leading Beasley's saddled and bridled horse. This fellow dropped the bridle and sat down among his comrades without a word. No one spoke. The presence of the horse was significant. With a snarling, muttered curse, Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the ranch-house.
In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had known for hours -- that if he had stood any chance at all for their respect as well as for his life the hour was long past.
Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and when he got there he nervously poured out a drink. Evidently something in the fiery liquor frightened him, for he threw the bottle aside. It was as if that bottle contained a courage which was false.
Again he paced the long sitting-room, growing more and more wrought-up as evidently he grew familiar with the singular state of affairs. Twice the pale serving-woman called him to dinner.
The dining-room was light and pleasant, and the meal, fragrant and steaming, was ready for him. But the women had disappeared. Beasley seated himself -- spread out his big hands on the table.
Then a slight rustle -- a clink of spur -- startled him. He twisted his head.
"Howdy, Beasley!" said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by magic.
Beasley's frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been loosed in his veins. Sweat-drops stood out on his pallid face.
"What -- you -- want?" he asked, huskily.
"Wal now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein' I am foreman heah, thet it'd be nice an' proper fer me to drop in an' eat with you -- THE LAST TIME!" replied the cowboy. His drawl was slow and cool, his tone was friendly and pleasant. But his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its beak.
Beasley's reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.
Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.
"Eat or not, it's shore all the same to me," said Las Vegas, and he began to load his plate with his left hand. His right hand rested very lightly, with just the tips of his vibrating fingers on the edge of the table; and he never for the slightest fraction of a second took his piercing eyes off Beasley.
"Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my blood to see you sittin' there -- thinkin' you've put my boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch," began Las Vegas, softly.
And then he helped himself leisurely to food and drink. "In my day I've shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws, thieves, rustlers, an' sich like, but fer an out an' out dirty low-down skunk, you shore take the dough! . . . I'm goin, to kill you in a minit or so, jest as soon as you move one of them dirty paws of yourn. But I hope you'll be polite an' let me say a few words. I'll never be happy again if you don't. . . . Of all the -- yaller greaser dogs I ever seen, you're the worst! . . . I was thinkin' last night mebbe you'd come down an' meet me like a man, so 's I could wash my hands ever afterward without gettin' sick to my stummick.
But you didn't come. . . . Beasley, I'm so ashamed of myself thet I gotta call you -- when I ought to bore you, thet -- Iain't even second cousin to my old self when I rode fer Chisholm. It don't mean nuthin' to you to call you liar! robber! blackleg! a sneakin' coyote! an' a cheat thet hires others to do his dirty work! . . . By Gawd! --""Carmichael, gimme a word in," hoarsely broke out Beasley.
"You're right, it won't do no good to call me. . . . But let's talk. . . . I'll buy you off. Ten thousand dollars --""Haw! Haw! Haw!" roared Las Vegas. He was as tense as a strung cord and his face possessed a singular pale radiance.
His right hand began to quiver more and more.
"I'll -- double -- it!" panted Beasley. "I'll -- make over -- half the ranch -- all the stock --""Swaller thet!" yelled Las Vegas, with terrible strident ferocity.
"Listen -- man! . . . I take -- it back! . . . I'll give up -- Auchincloss's ranch!" Beasley was now a shaking, whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with rolling eyes.
Las Vegas's left fist pounded hard on the table.
"GREASER, COME ON!" he thundered.
Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his gun.
