Charles Alden Seltzer - Square Deal Sanderson

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Sanderson started northeastward without any illusions. A product of
the Far Southwest, where the ability to live depended upon those
natural, protective instincts and impulses which civilization frowns
upon, Sanderson was grimly confident of his accomplishments--which were
to draw a gun as quickly as any other man had ever drawn one, to shoot
as fast and as accurately as the next man--or a little faster and more
accurately; to be alert and self-contained, to talk as little as
possible; to listen well, and to deal fairly with his fellow-men.

That philosophy had served Sanderson well. It had made him feared and
respected throughout Arizona; it had earned him the sobriquet
"Square"--a title which he valued.

Sanderson could not have told, however, just what motive had impelled
him to decide to go to the Double A. No doubt the Drifter's story
regarding the trouble that was soon to assail Mary Bransford had had
its effect, but he preferred to think he had merely grown tired of life
at the Pig-Pen--Burrough's ranch--and that the Drifter's story, coming
at the instant when the yearning for a change had seized upon him, had
decided him.

He had persisted in that thought until after the finding of the letters
in William Bransford's pockets; and then, staring down at the man's
face, he had realized that he had been deluding himself, and, that he
was journeying northeastward merely because he was curious to see the
girl whom the Drifter had so vividly described.

Away back in his mind, too, there might have been a chivalrous desire
to help her in the fight that was to come with Alva Dale. He had felt
his blood surge hotly at the prospect of a fight, with Mary Bransford
as the storm center; a passion to defend her had got into his soul; and
a hatred for Alva Dale had gripped him.

Whatever the motive, he had come, and since he had looked down into
William Bransford's face, he had become conscious of a mighty
satisfaction. The two men who had trailed Bransford had been
cold-blooded murderers, and he had avenged Bransford completely. That
could not have happened if he had not yielded to the impulse to go to
the Double A.

He was glad he had decided to go. He was now the bearer of ill news,
but he was convinced that the girl would want to know about her
brother--and he must tell her. And now, too, he was convinced that his
journey to the Double A had been previously arranged--by Fate, or
whatever Providence controls the destinies of humans.

And that conviction helped him to fight down the sense of guilty
embarrassment that had afflicted him until now--the knowledge that he
was deliberately and unwarrantedly going to the Double A to interfere,
to throw himself into a fight with persons with whom he had no previous
acquaintance, for no other reason than that his chivalrous instincts
had prompted him.

And yet his thoughts were not entirely serious as he rode. The
situation had its humorous side.

"Mostly nothin' turns out as folks figure in the beginnin'," he told
himself. "Otherwise everything would be cut an' dried, an' there
wouldn't be a heap of fun in the world--for butters-in. An' folks
which scheme an' plot, tryin' to get things that belong to other folks,
would have it too easy. There's got to be folks that wander around,
nosin' into places that they shouldn't. Eh, Streak?"

Streak did not answer, and Sanderson rode on, smiling gravely.

He made a dry camp that night in a sea of mesquite at the edge of a
sand plain, although, he knew he could not now be far from the Double A
range. And in the early light of the morning he found his judgment
vindicated, for stretching before him, still in a northeasterly
direction, he saw a great, green-brown level sweeping away from his
feet and melting into some rimming mountains--a vast, natural basin of
gigantic proportions.

Sanderson was almost at the end of his journey, it was early morning,
and he was in no hurry. He leisurely prepared his breakfast, sitting
on a flat rock as he ate, and scanning the basin.

Mere bigness had never impressed Sanderson; the West had shown him
greater vistas than this mammoth basin. And yet his eyes glowed as he
looked out and down at the country that lay, slumbering in the pure
white light of the dawn.

He saw, dotting the floor of the basin, the roofs of houses. From his
height they seemed to be close together, but Sanderson was not misled,
and he knew that they were separated by miles of virgin soil--of
sagebrush and yucca, and soapweed and other desert weeds that needed
not the magic of water to make them live.

When Sanderson finally mounted Streak, the sun was up. It took Streak
two hours to descend the slope leading down into the basin, and when
once horse and rider were down, Sanderson dismounted and patted
Streak's moist flanks.

"Some drop, eh, Streak?" he said. "But it didn't fool us none. We
knowed it was some distance, didn't we? An' they ain't foolin' us
about the rest of it, are they? The Drifter said to head toward the
Big Peak. The Double A would be right near there--in the foothills.
Looks easy, don't it? But I reckon we'll have to hump ourselves to get
there by feedin' time, this noon, eh?"

A little later, Streak having rested, Sanderson mounted and rode
forward, toward the peak of a majestic mountain that loomed far above
them.

CHAPTER IV

IH WHICH A MAN IS SYMPATHETIC

It was shortly after noon when Sanderson, urging Streak to the crest of
an isolated excrescence of earth surrounded by a level of sage and
cactus, saw within several hundred yards of him a collection of
buildings scattered on a broad plain that extended back several hundred
yards farther until it merged into the rock-faced wall of a butte that
loomed upward many feet.

Sanderson halted Streak on the hilltop to glance around. The
buildings, evidently, belonged to the Double A ranch, and the country
was all the Drifter had claimed for it.

The big stretch of plain--in fact, the entire basin--could be made
fertile by the judicious use of water. Sanderson was not an engineer,
but he had sufficient natural knowledge of land to enable him to
distinguish good land from bad. Besides, near Phoenix he had inspected
a gigantic irrigation project, and had talked long with the engineer in
charge, and he had learned many things that would not have interested
the average cowpuncher.

There was a break in the wall of the butte south of the group of
buildings, and out of the break Sanderson could see water tumbling and
splashing from one rock ledge to another until it rushed down, forming
quite a large stream as it struck the level and swirled hurriedly
between two sloping banks near the buildings.

From where Sanderson sat on Streak he could look far back into the
break in the butte. The break made a sort of gorge, which widened as
it receded, and Sanderson suspected the presence of another basin
beyond the butte--in fact, the Drifter had told him of the presence of
another basin.

"She'd make some lake, if she was bottled up!" was Sanderson's mental
comment after a long examination.

His gaze became centered upon the buildings and the level surrounding
them.

The buildings were ordinary, but the country was rugged and picturesque.

Some foothills--which Sanderson had seen from the far side of the basin
that morning--rose from the level toward the south, their pine-clad
slopes sweeping sharply upward--a series of gigantic land waves that
seemed to leap upward and upward toward the higher peaks of some
mountains behind them.

Northward, fringing the edge of the plain that began at the foothills
and stretched many miles, were other mountains; eastward the butte
extended far, receding, irregular, its jagged walls forming a barrier;
southwestward stretched the basin, in a gentle slope that was more
noticeable to Sanderson now than it had been while he had been riding
during the morning.

The land around the buildings was fertile, for here was water which
could be utilized. The land over which Sanderson had been riding all
morning, though, was not so fertile; it needed the water that the
stream splashing out of the gorge could give it, with proper human
manipulation.

All morning Sanderson's thoughts had dwelt upon the serious lack of
water in the basin. Now his thoughts grew definitely troubled.

"There's goin' to be hell here--if this thing ain't handled right. The
Double A has got lots of water. The other fellows will be wantin' it.
They've got to have it."

Sanderson finished his inspection of the place. Then he spoke to
Streak, and the big brown horse descended the slope of the hill, struck
the level, and cantered slowly toward the ranch buildings near the
river.

Sanderson urged the brown horse toward the largest building of the
group, and as he rode he straightened in the saddle, rearranged his
neckerchief and brushed some of the dust from his clothing--for at this
minute his thoughts went to the girl--whom he now knew he had come to
see.

Sanderson no longer tried to delude himself. A strange reluctance
oppressed him, and a mighty embarrassment seized him; his face grew
crimson beneath the coat of tan upon it, and his lungs swelled with a
dread eagerness that had gripped him.

"I reckon I'm a damn fool!" he told himself as he forced Streak onward;
"I'm comin' here, not knowin' why, but still a-comin'." He grinned,
mirthlessly, but went forward.

Heading toward the ranchhouse, he passed a huge building--the stable.
Swinging wide around one of its corners, he was about to ride onward
toward the ranchhouse, when out of the corners of his eyes he saw some
men and horses grouped in front of the stable.

He pulled Streak up with a jerk, swung the animal's head around and
faced the group. There were five horses, saddled and bridled, standing
in front of the stable. Sanderson's eyes noted that in one swift
glance. But it was upon a man that Sanderson's gaze centered as Streak
came to a halt.

The man dominated. There were other men standing in front of the
stable--and two women. But the man upon whom Sanderson's gaze rested
was the compelling figure.

He was big--rugged, muscular, massive. He saw Sanderson at about the
instant Sanderson saw him, and he faced the latter, his chin thrusting,
his lips pouting, his eyes gleaming with cold belligerence. He wore a
gray woolen shirt, open at the throat, revealing a strong, wide chest.

He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling
magnetism that gripped one instantly. It affected Sanderson; the sight
of the man caused Sanderson's eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.

And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was
Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died
out of Sanderson's eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of
premeditated and deliberate hostility.

For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men
met, crossed, and neither man's eyes wavered.

Then the big man spoke, gruffly, shortly, coldly: "What do you want?"

Sanderson smiled faintly. "You runnin' things here?" he said, slowly.

"Hell!" snarled the other, and stepped forward.

"Because if you are," resumed Sanderson, his voice bringing the big man
to a halt, "you're the man I'm wantin' to do my gassin' to. If you
ain't runnin' things, why, I reckon you ain't in the deal at all."

"Well, I'm runnin' things," sneered the other. "Tell me what you're
wantin' or pull your freight out of here, _pronto_!"

"I'm sure some disturbed over my mistake," grinned Sanderson. "You
couldn't be anybody but Bransford, or you wouldn't shoot off your gab
that reckless. If you're Bransford, I'm apologizin' to you for talkin'
back to you. But if you ain't Bransford, get off your hind legs an'
talk like a man!"

The big man stiffened, and his eyes glittered malignantly. He moved
his feet slightly apart and let his body fall into a crouch. He held
that position, though, not moving a finger, when he saw a saturnine
smile wreathe Sanderson's lips, noted the slight motion with which
Sanderson edged Streak around a little, caught the slow, gradual
lifting of Sanderson's shoulder--the right; which presaged the drawing
of the heavy pistol that swung at Sanderson's right hip.

Both men held their positions for some seconds; and the slow, heavy
breathing of the big man indicated his knowledge of the violence that
impended--the violence that, plainly, Sanderson would not retreat from.

Then the big man's body began to relax, and a tinge of color came into
his face. He grinned, malevolently, with forced lightness.

"Hell," he said; "you're damned particular! I'm runnin' things here,
but I ain't Bransford!"

"I was reckonin' you wasn't," said Sanderson, mockingly. He now
ignored the big man, and fixed his gaze on one of the women--the one he
felt must be Mary Bransford.

He had found time, while talking with the big man, to look twice at the
two women--and he had discovered they were not women at all, but girls.
More, he had discovered that one of them looked as he had pictured her
many times during the days since he had heard of her from the Drifter.

She was standing slightly aside from the men--and from the other girl.
She was pale, her eyes were big and fright-laden, and since Sanderson's
comings she had been looking at him with an intense, wondering and
wistful gaze, her hands clasped over her breast, the fingers working
stiffly.

Sanderson colored as he looked at her; he was wondering what she would
say to him if she knew that he had come to the Double A purposely to
see her, and that seeing her he was afflicted with a dismayed
embarrassment that threatened to render him speechless.

For she more than fulfilled the promise of what he had expected of her.
She was slightly above medium height, though not tall--a lissome,
graceful girl with direct, frank eyes.

That was all Sanderson noted. Her hair, he saw, of course--it was done
up in bulging knots and folds--and was brown, and abundant, and it made
him gulp in admiration of it; but he could not have told what her
features were like--except that they were what he expected them to be.

"I reckon you're Mary Bransford, ma'am?" he said to her.

The girl took a step toward him, unclasping her hands.

"Yes," she said rapidly, "It can't be that you--that you----"

The big man stepped between the girl and Sanderson, pushing the girl
aside and standing before Sanderson. But he spoke to the girl.

"Look here," he said shortly; "I don't know what you two are goin' to
palaver about, but whatever it is it's goin' to wait until what we set
about to do is done." He looked at Sanderson. "Stranger, we ain't got
no objections to you doin' all the lookin' you want to do. But keep
your trap shut. Now, Miss Bransford," he continued, turning to the
girl, "we'll get this trial over with. You say them steers which me
an' my boys brought over an' put into your corral is Double A
steers--that you're sure the brand is yours--an' the earmarks?"

"Ye-es," returned the girl slowly and hesitatingly.

While talking with Sanderson she had unclasped her hands, and now she
clasped them again, twining the fingers with a quick, nervous motion.
Again her eyes grew wide with fright, and Sanderson saw her looking at
the other girl--he saw the other girl stiffen and stand straight, her
lips curving scornfully as she returned Miss Bransford's gaze.

Sanderson's lips straightened. And now for the first time he gravely
inspected the faces in the group near him.

Two men--cowboys--who stood near the big man, were evidently the "boys"
referred to by the latter. Their faces were set and expressionless.
Between them stood a rugged, well-built man of about twenty-two or
three. His hands were tied behind him, a rope was around his neck, the
free end coiled in the hands of one of the two men.

The young man's face was sullen, but his head was held very erect, and
his eyes were steady and unwavering as he watched the big man.

The girl at whom Miss Bransford was looking stood near the young man.
Sanderson saw her turn from Miss Bransford and look at the young man
piteously, her lips quivering suspiciously.

There was another man in the group--an under-sized fellow, pale,
emaciated, with big, troubled, and perplexed eyes. Sanderson saw that
his hands were clenched, and that his thin lips were pressed so tightly
together that they were blue and bloodless.

This man stood slightly apart from the others, as though he had no part
in what was going on; though Sanderson could tell from his manner that
he was laboring under an intense strain.

Miss Bransford and the big man were the opposing forces in what was
transpiring--Sanderson knew that from Miss Bransford's manner of
answering the big man's question. Her "yes" had been uttered
reluctantly. Her testimony was damaging--she knew it, and her
sympathies were with the young man with the rope around his neck.

Sanderson knew nothing of the motives that were actuating the people of
this little drama, but he was entirely conscious of the visible forces
that were at work.

Plainly, the big man had accused the captive of stealing cattle; he had
brought the supposed culprit to face the owner of the stolen stock; he
had constituted himself judge and jury, and was determined to hang the
young man.

The two men with the big man were noncommittal. The pale, undersized
man was a mere onlooker whose sympathies were with the accused. Miss
Bransford would have been quite willing to have this young man escape
punishment, but she could not deny that the cattle in question belonged
to her.

Sanderson was in doubt about the other young woman, though obviously
she was closely related to him--a wife, or sister--perhaps a sweetheart.

Sanderson studied the young man's face, comparing it with the big
man's, and his lips stiffened. He backed Streak slightly and swung
crosswise in the saddle, intense interest seizing him.

The big man grinned, first at Miss Bransford, and then at the other
girl.

"I reckon that settles it," he said. "There don't seem to be nothin'
more to it. Miss Bransford says the cattle is hers, an' we found them
in Ben Nyland's corral. There ain't-----"

"Alva Dale, you are a sneak and a liar!"

This was the girl. She had stepped forward until she was within a
short pace from the big man. She stood erect, rigid, her hands
clenched at her sides; her chin lifted, her eyes flashing with defiant
passion.

Dale smirked at her.

"Peggy Nyland," he said, "you're handin' it to me pretty strong, ain't
you? You'd fight for your brother's life, of course. But I represent
the law here, an' I've got to do my duty. You won't deny that we found
them steers in your brother's corral?"

"No, I can't deny that!" declared the girl passionately. "You found
them there. They were there. But Ben did not put them there. Shall I
tell you who did? It was you! I heard a noise in the corral during
the night--last night! But I--thought it was just our own cattle. And
I did not go out to see.

"Oh, how I wish I had! But Ben didn't put the Double A cattle in the
corral, for Ben was in the house all the time. He went to bed when I
did, and I saw him, sleeping in his bunk, when the noise awakened me!"

The girl stepped closer to Dale, her voice vibrating with scorn and
loathing.

"If you didn't put the steers in our corral, you know who did, Alva
Dale," she went on. "And you know why they were put there! You didn't
do it because you wanted Ben's land--as I've heard you have said; you
did it to get Ben out of the way so that you could punish me!

"If I had told Ben how you have hounded me--how you have insulted me,
Ben would have killed you long ago. Oh, I ought to have told him, but
I was afraid--afraid to bring more trouble to Ben!"

Dale laughed sneeringly as he watched the young man writhe futilely in
the hands of his captors.

"Sounds reasonable--an' dramatic," he said. "It'd do some good, mebbe,
if they was any soft-headed ninnies around that would believe it. But
the law ain't soft-headed. We found them steers in Ben Nyland's
corral--some of them marked with Ben's brand--the Star--blottin' out
the Double A. An' Miss Bransford admits the steers are hers. They
ain't nothin' more to be said."

"Yes, there is, Dale," said Miss Bransford. "It is quite evident there
has been a mistake made. I am willing to believe Peggy Nyland when she
says Ben was asleep in the cabin all night--with her. At any rate, I
don't want any hanging over a few cattle. I want you to let Ben Nyland
go."

Dale wheeled and faced Miss Bransford. His face reddened angrily, but
he managed to smile.

"It's too late, Miss Bransford. The evidence is all in. There's got
to be rules to govern such cases as this. Because you own the steers
is no sign you've got a right to defeat the aims of justice. I'd like
mighty well to accommodate you, but I've got my duty to consider, an' I
can't let him off. Ben Nyland has got to hang, an' that's all there is
to it!"

There came a passionate outcry from Peggy Nyland; and then she had her
arms around her brother's neck, sobbing that she would never let him be
hanged.

Miss Bransford's eyes were blazing with rage and scorn as they
challenged Dale's. She walked close to him and said something in a low
tone to him, at which he answered, though less gruffly than before,
that it was "no use."

Miss Bransford looked around appealingly; first at the pale, anemic
little man with big eyes, who shifted his feet and looked
uncomfortable; then her gaze went to Sanderson who, resting his left
elbow on the pommel of the saddle, was watching her with squinting,
quizzical eyes.

There was an appeal in Miss Bransford's glance that made the blood leap
to Sanderson's face. Her eyes were shining with an eloquent yearning
that would have caused him to kill Dale--if he had thought killing the
man would have been the means of saving Ben Nyland.

And then Mary Bransford was at his side, her hands grasping his,
holding them tightly as her gaze sought his and held it.

"Won't you please do something?" she pleaded. "Oh, if it only could
be! That's a mystery to you, perhaps, but when I spoke to you before I
was going to ask you if--if-- But then, of course you couldn't be--or
you would have spoken before."

Sanderson's eyes glowed with a cold fire. He worked his hands free,
patted hers reassuringly, and gently pushed her away from Streak.

He swung down from the saddle and walked to Dale. The big man had his
back turned to Sanderson, and when Sanderson reached him he leaned over
his shoulder and said gently:

"Look here, Dale."

The latter wheeled, recognizing Sanderson's voice and snarling into the
latter's face.

"Well?" he demanded.

Sanderson grinned mildly. "I reckon you've got to let Ben Nyland off,
Dale--he ain't guilty. Mebbe I ought to have stuck in my gab before,
but I was figurin' that mebbe you wouldn't go to crowdin' him so close.
Ben didn't steal no steers; he run them into his corral by my orders."

Dale guffawed loudly and stepped back to sneer at Sanderson. But he
had noted the steadiness of the latter's eyes and the sneer faded.

"Bah!" he said. "Your orders! An' who in hell are you?"

"I'm Bill Bransford," said Sanderson quietly, and he grinned
mirthlessly at Dale over the two or three feet of space that separated
them.

CHAPTER V

WATER AND KISSES

For several seconds Dale did not speak. A crimson stain appeared above
the collar of his shirt and spread until it covered his face and neck,
leaving his cheeks poisonously bloated and his eyes glaring.

But the steady eyes and the cold, deliberate demeanor of Sanderson did
much to help Dale regain his self-control--which he did, while Mary
Bransford, running forward, tried to throw her arms around Sanderson's
neck. She was prevented from accomplishing this design by Sanderson
who, while facing Dale, shoved the girl away from him, almost roughly.

"There's time for that after we've settled with Dale," he told the girl
gruffly.

Dale had recovered; he sneered. "It's easy enough to make a claim like
that, but it's another thing to prove it. How in hell do we know
you're Bill Bransford?"

Sanderson's smile was maddening. "I ain't aimin' to prove nothin'--to
you!" he said. But he reached into a pocket, drew out the two letters
he had taken from the real Bransford's pocket, and passed them back to
Mary Bransford, still facing Dale.

He grinned at Dale's face as the latter watched Mary while she read the
letters, gathering from the scowl that swept over the other's lips that
Mary had accepted them as proof of his identity.

"You'll find the most of that thousand you sent me in my slicker," he
told the girl. And while Mary ran to Streak, unstrapped the slicker,
tore it open, and secured the money, Sanderson watched Dale's face,
grinning mockingly.

"O Will--Will!" cried the girl joyously behind Sanderson.

Sanderson's smile grew. "Seems to prove a heap, don't it?" he said to
Dale. "I know a little about law myself. I won't be pressin' no
charge against Nyland. Take your rope off him an' turn him free. An'
then mebbe you'll be accommodatin' enough to hit the breeze while the
hittin's good--for me an' Miss--my sister's sort of figurin' on a
reunion--bein' disunited for so long."

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