THE SHOOTING

Racey Dawson, riding back to Moccasin Spring, was in a warm and pleasant frame of mind.  With him rode Old Salt, and with Old Salt rode Old Salt’s check book.  Racey had, after much argument and persuasion, made excellent arrangements with Mr. Saltoun.  The latter, anxious though he was to own the Dale place himself, had agreed to pay off the mortgage bought by Lanpher and Tweezy and take in return a 6 per cent. mortgage for ten years.  No wonder Racey was pleased with himself.  He had a right to be.

As they crossed the Marysville and Farewell trail Racey’s horse picked up a fortuitous stone.  Racey dismounted.  Mr. Saltoun, slouching comfortably back against his cantle, looked doubtfully down at Racey where he stood humped over, the horse’s hoof between his knees, tapping with a knife handle at the lodged stone.

“A ten-year mortgage is a long one, kind of,” he said, slowly.

“I thought we’d settled all that.”  Racey lifted a quick head.

“Shore we’ve done settled it,” Mr. Saltoun acquiesced, promptly.  “That’s all right.  I’m going through with my part of it.  Gotta do it.  Nothing else to do.  I was just a-thinking, that’s all.”

Racey merely grunted.  He resumed his tapping.

“Alla same,” Mr. Saltoun said, suddenly, “I don’t believe this Jack Harpe feller had anything to do with this mortgage deal, Racey.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.  You can’t make me believe they’s any coon in that tree.  If they was why ain’t Jack Harpe done something before this?  Tell me that.  Why ain’t he?”

“Damfino.”

“Shore you don’t.  You was mistaken, Racey.  Badly mistaken.  Yore judgment was out by a mile.  She’s all just Luke Tweezy and that lousy skunk of a Lanpher trying to act spotty.  No more than that.”

“Well, ain’t that enough?”

“Shore, but—­”

“But nothing.  Where’d you be if I hadn’t found out about it, huh?  Wouldn’t you look nice feedin’ other folks’ cows on yore grass?”

“Alla same, they wouldn’t ‘a’ been Jack Harpe’s cows.”

“Which is all you know about it.  You never would take warning, and you know it.  How about the time when Blakely was the 88 manager, and they were rustling yore cattle so fast it made a quarter-hoss racing full split look slow?”

“Well, but—­” interrupted Mr. Saltoun, beginning to fidget with his reins.

“And the time Cutnose Canter tried to run off a whole herd of hosses on you?” Racey breezed on, warming to his subject.  “You wouldn’t let Chuck warn you.  Oh, no, not you.  He didn’t know what he was talking about.  No, he didn’t.  And how did it turn out, huh?  What did that li’l party cost you?  Yeah, I would begin frizzling round if I was you.  You’ll generally notice the feller who’s the last to laugh enjoys it the most.  I’m that feller—­me and Swing both.”

“Aw, say—­”

“Yeah, me and Swing will be thanking you for a healthy big check apiece when our time-limit is up.  Yes, indeedy, that’s us.”