PROLOGUE

I.  “Call me Jimmie-go-get-’em”
II.  Shoot-A-buck canon
III.  Ranse Roush pays
IV.  Pauline Roubideau says “Thank you”
V. No four-flusher
VI.  Billie asks A question
VII.  On the trail
VIII.  The fight
IX.  Billie stands pat
X. Bud Proctor lends A hand
XI.  The fugitives
XII.  The good Samaritan
XIII.  A friendly enemy
XIV.  The gun-barrel road
XV.  Lee plays A leading role
XVI.  Three modern Musketeers
XVII.  “Peg-leg” Warren
XVIII.  A stampede
XIX.  A two-gun man
XX.  Exit mysterious Pete
XXI.  Jim receives and declines an offer
XXII.  The rustlers’ camp
XXIII.  Murder from the chaparral
XXIV.  Jimmie-go-get-’em leaves A note
XXV.  The mal-Pais
XXVI.  A dust-storm
XXVII.  “A lucky guy”
XXVIII.  Sheriff prince functions
XXIX.  “They can’t hang me if I ain’t there”
XXX.  Polly has A plan
XXXI.  Goodheart makes A promise and breaks it
XXXII.  Jim takes A prisoner
XXXIII.  The round-up
XXXIV.  Primrose paths

A Man Four-Square

Prologue

A girl sat on the mossy river-bank in the dappled, golden sunlight.  Frowning eyes fixed on a sweeping eddy, she watched without seeing the racing current.  Her slim, supple body, crouched and tense, was motionless, but her soul seethed tumultuously.  In the bosom of her coarse linsey gown lay hidden a note.  Through it destiny called her to the tragic hour of decision.

The foliage of the young pawpaws stirred behind her.  Furtively a pair of black eyes peered forth and searched the opposite bank of the stream, the thicket of rhododendrons above, the blooming laurels below.  Very stealthily a handsome head pushed out through the leaves.

“’Lindy,” a voice whispered.

The girl gave a start, slowly turned her head.  She looked at the owner of the voice from steady, deep-lidded eyes.  The pulse in her brown throat began to beat.  One might have guessed her with entire justice a sullen lass, untutored of life, passionate, and high-spirited, resentful of all restraint.  Hers was such beauty as lies in rich blood beneath dark coloring, in dusky hair and eyes, in the soft, warm contours of youth.  Already she was slenderly full, an elemental daughter of Eve, primitive as one of her fur-clad ancestors.  No forest fawn could have been more sensuous or innocent than she.

Again the man’s glance swept the landscape cautiously before he moved out from cover.  In the country of the Clantons there was always an open season on any one of his name.

“What are you doin’ here, Dave Roush?” the girl demanded.  “Are you crazy?”

“I’m here because you are, ’Lindy Clanton,” he answered promptly.  “That’s a right good reason, ain’t it?”

The pink splashed into her cheeks like spilled wine.