Deej Recommends: The Man Who Rode "Purgatory"

by Charles Alden Seltzer

Charles Alden Seltzer has come to be an author I quite like, who wrote reliably entertaining westerns. Up to now, I have only known his novels, not only because my publishing preference is for novels, but because once he started selling them regularly (both to the pulps for serialization, and to book publishers), he more or less stopped writing shorter fiction. One supposes this was partly because novels paid better (and in his case, paid twice); but there is also the fact that he had a life outside of writing, including serving as mayor of North Olmsted, Ohio, from 1930 to 1935.

Part of my interest in Seltzer is that his evolution as a writer is so distinct. His novels prior to 1920 are perfectly readable and entertaining. After 1920, without any exceptions that I have found, they become compelling, almost mythic. According to Seltzer family lore, Charles wrote hundreds of short stories before selling his first one, with his wife getting paper from the butcher for him to write on, to save money until they started selling. That sort of dogged work ethic, even if it is somewhat exaggerated, as family lore tends to be, somewhat explains his evolution. He just kept at it till he figured it out.

This brief story, from 1909, shows glimmers of the mythic power Seltzer would attain later. It has aspects that are on the nose, or clichéd even for 1909, and yet, it works, and Seltzer finds a way to make the clichés ring true.

I have several Seltzer novels published, and two omnibuses. If you want to read him in top form, the novels in 3 Ways of Lead all date from the 1920s, and I would be hard pressed to pick one as a favorite. If you want to discover the leap in storytelling power I mean, 3 Men of the West has two novels from the late 1910s, and West! from 1921, which was the book that first made me realize how very good he could be.

The Man Who Rode “Purgatory”

by Charles Alden Seltzer

Looking out of the ranch house window, Sid Tucker, Manager of Lazy J, saw a hundred miles of sand and dust, hot, dry, and shimmering in the white glare of the sun that shone down from an empty sky. Between the ranch house and the ragged sky-line was an emptiness that suggested interminable space.

The Manager had never been able to discover beauty in the picture, and yet for fully five minutes he had given it his undivided attention. Presently he turned to the young man who stood just inside the ranch house door, garbed in an exaggerated Western costume; beardless, leanfaced, with eyes that hinted at a grave innocence strangely blended with the boldness of youth. “And so you want to work for Lazy J?” he asked, as though the idea had occasioned deep surprise.

“I reckon that’s why I asked you.” returned the young man. easily, without changing his position.

Tucker’s lips tightened. It was said of Tucker, that this tightening of the lips was no indication of the trend of his thoughts.

In the present instant, he might have been amused or displeased. He held no reputation for levity.

Ten minutes before, when he had seen the young man slide from his drooping cow pony, flinging the reins over its head, and stride into the ranch house with boldly whizzing spurs, Tucker’s mind had run on a long journey into the past. That was why he had kept the young man waiting.

“I don’t remember,” he said, abruptly, “that this here outfit has ever advertised to break in tender-feet.”

From under his shaggy eyebrows, Tucker watched furtively to see how the stranger would take this unmistakable slur. Except for the slight stiffening of the body and a faintest trace of a smile, the young man gave no sign of feeling. “I don’t remember that I asked you to,” he returned, almost tenderly.

In spite of the softness of the tone, there was a cold note somewhere. Tucker’s lips tightened again.

“Where do you come from?”

“Springville.”

“Why, that’s Baggett’s ranch,” he said coldly.

“Sure. I thought you’d know.” There was a complacent enjoyment in the tone.

Tucker made a second inspection of him. He was tall and well set up. The leathern chaps which had especially aroused the Manager’s ill-concealed scorn had seen hard wear. But there was a wide-brimmed hat—too wide for the cow-puncher who had been in the country long enough to appreciate modesty of dress—and the two guns—sagging over each hip—that were more of a drag than a convenience, except when a man was adept for their use. “I expect you know Baggett’s foreman?” Tucker inquired. abruptly.

“Dave Barry? Sure.”

“Humph! And you worked under him!”

The young man smiled dryly. “Couldn’t have worked at Baggett’s unless I did,” he said.

Tucker glared with cold unbelief. “Know a fellow over there named Webb Ball?”

The stranger nodded. “Sure, you know him?” he returned.

“Heard of him,” was Tucker’s answer. “Bronco buster. Barry told me he was a regular dare-devil at breaking horses. Said he was plum quick with a gun, too, but never looked for trouble,” he half smiled at the young man. “Just now we could use a man like that.”

“Gun-man?” said the stranger, dropping his words slowly. Tucker’s eyes flickered with a tremulous humor. “No!” he said, with decision; “that kind is too dangerous for this locality. Might buckle up against Deveny, our range boss; he’s some quick with a gun, too. But we’re short a bronc’ buster. Got some horses that Satan himself wouldn’t risk his neck riding. ‘Purgatory’ is the worst of the lot. I’d sure like to see Webb Ball try to ride him!” There was a whimsical note in his voice. His eyes met the strangers. “Now, if you was Webb—”

“I am Webb Ball,” said the latter, quietly.

Tucker fairly spluttered. Then a blush slowly mounted his face. No man likes the sudden humbling of his pride of judgment.

“I’ve heard about this ‘Purgatory’ horse,” continued the stranger, unmoved by Tucker’s ejaculation. “Some of the boys over at Baggett’s say as how he can’t be rode. I can ride some,” he stated, with the calmness of perfect confidence in his own ability, “and I reckon I can ride this ‘Purgatory’ horse.”

---

Tucker’s eyes cooled with slow decision. “You can work here,” he said, presently; “and you’ll ride horses when you’re told. And if you ain’t the man you say you are—”

“Don’t!” said the stranger. And his lips curled and whitened.

Tucker laughed. “I reckon you’re no false alarm,” he said. “Go over to the bunk-house, and tell Deveny I’ve hired you.”

“Thanks,” said Ball. He stepped outside the door, and then, returning, stuck his head in.

“If it’s just the same to you,” he said, quietly, “I’d just as soon you wouldn’t advertise that I’m from Baggett’s.”

There was in the manager’s mind a desire for enlightenment, but he reflected upon the peculiar notions of the average cowpuncher, and smiled with indulgent sarcasm.

“You see,” continued Ball, “I wouldn’t want the boys here to know that I came over special to ride ‘Purgatory.’”

And, not waiting for an answer, he walked to his pony, tucked the reins under his arm, and led the animal to the corral. Tucker watched him as he let down the bars and replaced them: watched him as, with his saddle on his shoulder, he strode unconcernedly toward the bunk-house.

“He’s either a conceited son-of-a-gun, or he’s the Simon Pure article,” reflected the manager. He watched Ball until he disappeared through the door of the bunk-house. “Anyhow,” he concluded, summarising his thoughts, “he’s the first man that ever had me guessing.”

Down in the bunk-house at the edge of a cottonwood clump the Lazy J outfit was performing its ablutions preparatory to sitting down to dinner. A score of eyes were on Ball as he threw his saddle on the ground outside the door and entered the bunkhouse. There was the welcome aroma of steaming coffee and the savoury scent of fresh cooked beef. Several of the men were already seated at the long table when Ball entered.

No one showed any surprise, but many eyes met in suggestive squints. Like Tucker, they knew the significance of extra broad brims and leathern chaps.

“I’m looking for Deveny,” said Ball.

At the extreme end of the table a tall man rose from a chair, peering through the steam-laden atmosphere at the newcomer.

“Well, what do you want with him?” he demanded, brusquely.

Ball swung slowly on his heels and faced the man.

“If you are Deveny.” he said, quietly, “I want to tell you that Sid Tucker has hired me. I’m going to work here.”

Following this matter-of-fact announcement, there was a sudden movement at the end of the table. A chair grated on the floor, and out of the obscuring steam clouds came the tall man, shuffling slowly toward the light of the door.

“I’m Deveny,” he said, shortly.

He came closer, his attitude one of contemptuous insolence. Folding his arms across his great chest he eyed Ball with evident disfavor. He appeared to be making some pleasing mental calculations, for his eyes slowly closed to a quizzical squint and his lips curved cynically.

Suppressed curiosity was everywhere. Eyes that had previously been filled with a glazed unconcern over the monotony of things now brightened with interest as their owners crowded closer to see the stranger. Speculation ran riot in every man’s mind, but with the gentle consideration that Western etiquette teaches, they forebore speech. Some of them stood with folded arms, their freshly brushed hair plastered over their heads with extravagant precision; others—not yet prepared for the table—poked their tousled heads into the room through the open doorway.

---

The stranger had said that he was going to work for Lazy J. But was he? Much depended upon how Deveny decided. As range boss for Lazy J, Deveny had lived well up to his reputation for downright meanness.

“And so Tucker has hired you?” said Deveny. He contrived to give his words a venomous twist that made them almost an insult, and he swept his insolent gaze slowly up and down Ball’s figure.

“Tucker is sure mighty careless who he hires,” he added.

Fifteen of the sixteen men in the bunk-house would have resented Deveny’s words with an equally insulting retort; fifteen of the sixteen expected the stranger to do the same. If he did not he would, without further question, be placed among that small number of human weaklings known to the cow-puncher as “Yellows”—which, being interpreted, means cowards. And so in breathless silence they waited for the stranger to “show his hand.”

“I told Tucker I wanted work mighty bad,” said Ball, apology in his tone.

Deveny’s eyes flickered tremulously. Behind and around him healthy lungs sighed in process of deflation. Interest in the stranger had now become largely negative. Several of the men sought their chairs at the table, grinning contemptuously. Deveny placed his hands on his hips, and rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Yes, he said, shutting one eye at Ferguson, the straw boss,”you look as though you need work mighty bad. Had ’em long?” he questioned, suddenly.

“What?”

“Them guns and that hat,” returned Deveny. He laughed around the circle of faces. “Never saw but one hat like that before,” he declared, with a slow drawl, “and that was back in Chicago—before I came out here. Saw it in a store window. surrounded with belts and guns and bowies—like no man ever wears. If you expect to work here you’ll get a respectable hat. You hear?”

The men waited expectantly to hear the stranger’s reply to this second test. Then when Ball answered simply, “Yes,” they smiled expressively into one another’s eyes, and sought their places at the table. Deveny returned to his seat at the extreme end in scornful silence. Ball stood beside the open door, staring about uncertainly. Several of the men snickered. From that moment fifteen of the sixteen men ignored Ball’s very existence, giving their attention wholly to their dinners. Ball found a seat beside the Sixteenth Man.

“Deveny’s a bad one.” suggested this personage, addressing Ball, while throwing cover glances at the range boss. He might have been about Ball’s age, and he was a rugged looking man. but there was that in his eyes that told of timidity and indecision.

“I wouldn’t take no job here,” he suggested, in a significant undertone.

Ball caught his glance. “Why?”

---

The Sixteenth Man hesitated. He awaited his chance before replying. “Well, for one thing,” he said, finally, “Deveny didn’t take a shine to you, and no man can work here if Deveny don’t like him.”

“That all?” questioned Ball, as the Sixteenth Man hesitated again.

“No. You ain’t game.”

For the slightest instant Ball’s face paled and his lips twitched with a sudden hardness. Then he stared straight before him with expressionless eyes. He took several sips of coffee from his tin cup before he replied.

“Then you think Deveny will make things interesting for me?” he questioned.

“Interesting?” The Sixteenth Man’s voice was pregnant with unspoken sarcasm. “Say,” he added, “are you a fool, too? Can’t you see that he don’t want you?”

Whether Ball could “see” or not, he contented himself with allowing the Sixteenth Man to guess what his reply would have been had he spoken. But the Sixteenth Man had prophesied correctly. Deveny had not taken a “shine” to him. The range boss manifested this in many ways, taking advantage of the broad licence given him by Tucker, who never interfered with him in his method of handling the men.

Ball had been hired to break horses, but for three weeks after his first appearance at the bunk-house he labored long days in the irrigation ditches, alone, under a sun that swam in a dead sky; while the other men, on their way to and from the range, smiled comprehensively and sent subtle jeers at him. But he labored patiently and diligently at the digging, and if Deveny thought to discourage him from remaining at Lazy J he must secretly have admitted his failure. And he accepted the range boss’s sarcasm in much the same manner that he accepted his place in the ditches.

Then suddenly one day Deveny called him from a ditch and assigned him to a place in the cook-house. His duties there were to wash dishes and to perform such other menial service as the autocrat of the bunk-house directed. The first meal dished up to the outfit by Ball was made the occasion of hilarious, but subdued, jollity. Allusions to the “tenderfoot biscuit-shooter” failed utterly to shake Ball’s unfailing patience. Scraps of conversation overheard by him, including such phrases and terms as: “Yellow’s two guns” (which he wore always), and the “waggoners hat” (which Ball still wore in spite of Deveny’ s profane admonition to procure a “respectable” one), and “scairt cuss,” passed unnoticed or were accepted with slowly whitening lips and smouldering glances.

A week after his advent at the bunk-house Deveny managed to overturn a tin of coffee upon Ball’s hand as he attempted to reach over the table. For an instant Ball stiffened, and his eyes flashed ominously. Then he smiled wanly, and apologised to Deveny for his clumsiness. The men of the outfit knew Deveny, and they snickered into their plates over the incident. For the next week Ball went about his work in the bunk-house with his hand bandaged.

Apparently the Sixteenth Man sympathised with him. “He’s bound to get you,” he said to Ball. “Sooner or later you’ll find his insults too much, and you’ll try to pull your gun on him. And then—”

“What?”

“Then you’ll die quite sudden, and the boys’ll plant you over in the hills.”

But evidently, judging from Deveny’s manner, it was not his intention to goad Ball into drawing his gun. If this was his intention, he concealed it with consummate skill. It was apparent. however, that he took pleasure in placing Ball in such positions that he appeared a ridiculous figure among the men of the outfit. Besides, having the reputation of being a gun-fighter, Deveny might have hesitated about picking a quarrel with the inoffensive Ball, for while the men of the outfit were quite willing to laugh at the young man, they might have resented his being forced into a gun-fight that would end in his death. The Sixteenth Man communicated this to Ball one night after supper.

“The boys know Deveny is after you, and while they’re not admiring you any, they’re going to see that you get a square deal.” The Sixteenth Man was surprised that Ball showed no signs of appreciation.

Then one morning about a week later Deveny entered the bunk-house while the men were at breakfast, and Ball was pouring coffee. The range boss’s manner was one of domineering insolence.

“Well, sonny, how do you like cooking?” he asked.

Ball did not look at him as he replied: “It’s a heap better than breaking horses.”

---

The range boss meditated, frowning at Ball’s averted face. Then he smiled with inscrutable humor. “You don’t like to break horses, I take it,” he said.

“That’s so,” assented Ball. For the first time in many weeks he smiled.

Deveny grinned around at the men. “We’re going to round up a bunch of mavericks to-day, and I reckon you’ll go along.”

Half an hour later as Ball was tightening the cinches of his saddle, Deveny came up to him.

“You won’t ride that skate!” he sneered, indicating Ball’s pony. “Show him ‘Purgatory’!” he ordered, speaking to the Sixteenth Man. Deveny grinned maliciously as he departed for the manager’s office.

“Thunder and blazes!” exclaimed the Sixteenth Man, white-faced, to Ball. “‘Purgatory’s’ a devil; a lightning bolt on legs! There ain’t a man in the Territory can—”

“That him in the corner?” interrupted Ball, nodding toward a slant-eyed, mustard-colored pony that had kicked a clear space around him in the corral. The Sixteenth Man made an affirmative sign. Ball was already unslinging the coiled rope that hung from the pommel of his saddle. The Sixteenth Man stepped over to him and laid a detaining hand upon him.

“Don’t try to ride him,” he said, and his tone was almost a plea. “He’ll kill you like he did that other tenderfoot that came out here two years ago. He was only a kid, and Deveny made him ride ‘Purgatory’—and ‘Purgatory’ killed him. No man has ever tried to ride ‘Purgatory’ since. And now—”

“What kid?” questioned Ball, brusquely.

“A boy named Malone,” said the Sixteenth Man, tenderly.

“The kid ought to have known better,” declared Ball, with sudden gruffness. He turned and watched the range boss, listening meanwhile to the Sixteenth Man, and still working to uncoil the rope from the saddle horn.

“Shucks!” said the Sixteenth Man, with reproving heat. “You didn’t know the kid, or you wouldn’t talk that way about him. Any of the boys would have went to hell for him. I can’t forget what he did for me.” The Sixteenth Man’s voice softened.

“What did the kid do to Deveny that Deveny made him ride ‘Purgatory’?” questioned Ball, his face averted.

The Sixteenth Man cursed softly.

“What did you do to him that he wants you to ride him?” he flared back. “Nothing, I reckon. Only Deveny didn’t like him any more’n he likes you! Showed it the same way, too. Gets both of you to ride ‘Purgatory.’ And ‘Purgatory’ killed the kid, and he’ll kill you!”

“Maybe.” said Ball, shortly. He shook out his lariat and climbed the corral fence, making his way slowly toward the pony. A bridle trailed from his left arm.

---

The Sixteenth Man leaned against the fence, prepared to extend his sympathies to Ball when the latter should return—defeated. The Sixteenth Man knew that “Purgatory” had a reputation for evasion that extended throughout the Territory. Several of the men, ready for the trip to the range. rode up to the corral bars and halted to watch Ball’s defeat. They said no word, but exchanged eloquent glances. They had all had their trial with “Purgatory.”

But Ball wasted no time in false movements. Holding his rope low, so that it almost trailed the ground, he approached within fifty feet of “Purgatory.” Then while the watchers marvelled at his apparent carelessness there was a sudden swish, a dust cloud as “Purgatory” sensed the impending danger, a struggle—and “Purgatory” lay prone in the dust, his head held down by Ball.

The Sixteenth Man took down the corral bars, and in awed silence watched Ball lead “Purgatory” forth, the bridle securely adjusted. Then the Sixteenth Man replaced the bars and held “Purgatory’s”’ head while Ball placed the saddle upon him. “Purgatory’s” efforts to prevent the tightening of the cinches were fruitless, for the swift and sure movements of this new man took him by surprise.

After a moment he stood flat-eared and vicious, trembling with rage and fear. In two years no man had dared offer him this indignity, and his moment of indecision was given over to a distracted horse expression.

In that moment Ball had sprung into the saddle. At that moment also, Deveny came out of the manager’s office—the manager following.

“The crazy fool!” said Tucker. “If I had known he was going to try and ride ‘Purgatory’—”

“My orders,” interrupted Deveny, curtly. The eyes of the two men met—Tucker’s wide with a slow-dawning comprehension Deveny’s cold and level under his shaggy eyebrows.

“It’s murder!” declared Tucker, hoarsely. He was white to the lips. He was thinking of the day Ball had come to him. That meeting had aroused a slumbering sentiment which had developed into something almost like affection for Ball.

Deveny laughed evilly. “Yes,” he drawled, “‘Purgatory’s’ sure a man-killer.”’

The manager said nothing more, but came away from the door of the ranch-house, and stood silent, his eyes smouldering with a deep fire, watching Ball and “Purgatory.”

“Purgatory” had been only astonished when Ball had tightened the cinches; he was stunned when he felt the man’s weight on his back. But only for a moment. He required only this small space of time to realize that his arch enemy—man—was again brazenly attempting to conquer him. Then, his brain afire with the man-hatred of his wild ancestors, he squealed with almost human rage, and flung himself erect, standing dizzily upon his hind legs, pawing the air frantically. Finding the man unshaken, he bucked. A dozen times he sprang wildly into the air, coming down with arched spine, his four hoofs bunched, his head well down, his thin nostrils distorted with a snorting terror.

But Ball sat in the saddle, swinging his lithe body cleverly to “Purgatory’s” eccentric movements, rising in his stirrups when “Purgatory” bunched his feet upon the ground, goading the animal sharply with his spurs when it launched its body into the air, and twining his legs around it when, with head down and heels in the air, it attempted to pitch him out of the saddle, head foremost. Sitting on the top rail of the corral fence the Sixteenth Man ceased mumbling a crude prayer, and sat erect, suddenly aware that prayers for Ball were quite superfluous; evidently he had ridden “Purgatory’s” breed before.

“By the Lord!” exclaimed Tucker, at this instant. “He can ride!”

Deveny grinned maliciously. “Old ‘Purgatory’ has got some other tricks that he’ll try before long,” he said.

“Yes,” observed Tucker, triumphantly; “that’s one of them!”

“Purgatory,” coming down with a prodigious buck, had suddenly rolled. This was accomplished by striking the earth with his forelegs unjointed and stiffening his hind legs at the moment of impact. But evidently anticipating this move, Ball had flung his feet free of the stirrups, landing lightly on the earth beside “Purgatory,” and was using his heavy quirt with merciless vigor. “Purgatory” snorted with surprise; this spectacular performance had usually been enough for the ordinary rider.

---

Never had he been forced to undergo the humiliation of a whipping when he had attempted it. Hard driven, stung by the heavy lash that took him upon all sides, “Purgatory” scrambled wildly to his feet, intent on escaping his tormentor. Before he had taken two steps Ball had vaulted lightly into the saddle again.

“Whoope-e-e!” yelled the Sixteenth Man, from his position on the fence. And then, in a lower voice, and reprovingly, “And I told him he wasn’t game!”

Again feeling the weight of his adversary, “Purgatory” whipped around the broad level between the cottonwoods and the ranch-house, wild-eyed, desperate, making abrupt plunges, swerving with sudden, side-stepping jerks, rearing so far back that an inch more would have sent him crashing down. Still his enemy clung to his back with certain, unshaken determination; still the sharp spurs reminded him that his ancient enemy was supreme.

It was the most terrific time of “Purgatory’s” life. He had been accustomed to seeing his enemy from the inside of the corral; the corral fence had been the line that had separated him from the two-legged animal that he feared and hated. And heretofore, when they had attempted to sit astride him he had disposed of them quickly and finally. But now here was one of them who could not be displaced, who clung to him as though perforce he was a part of him; who, when he reared, flung himself free from the stirrups and made ready to lash him with the cruel quirt, and when he would arch his back would rise easily with him and at last settle firmly into the saddle to ply the torturing steel.

“Purgatory” halted suddenly and gathered himself for a supreme effort. As his sinews trembled on the verge of action he heard his enemy’s voice, taunting him:

“Buck, will you, you red-eyed devil? Well, buck then! Buck!”

Half set for a plunge, “Purgatory” snorted with anguish as the sharp spurs cut into his blood-flecked flanks and rose in the air with a squeal of rage and pain as they sank in again. He had no thought of bucking now; his one great desire was to get away from the tormenting pain of the rolling points of steel that tore incessantly into his sides.

The men of Lazy J saw the victory, and they yelled hoarsely as “Purgatory,” driven to desperation for the first time in his life, surrendered to the masterful riding of his enemy, and fled out upon the plains. The men of Lazy J kept their gaze upon the dust cloud that enveloped horse and rider until both disappeared from view in the distance. Then they drew together, eager-voiced and communicative. There was not one of them but saw the darkness that had settled over the face of the range boss.

---

Half an hour later “Purgatory” trotted into camp, his head drooping, his red nostrils shrilling the air into his exhausted lungs, the foam of exertion reeking from his sides. Upon his back Ball rode nonchalantly, smoking a scornful cigarette.

The men still lingered about the corral fence, and Tucker saw Ball’s triumphant approach from the window of the ranch-house. He smiled with satisfaction. From a window in the bunk-house, Deveny also saw “Purgatory’s” subjugation and he cursed with an abandon that startled the cook into overturning the coffee pot.

When Ball took his place beside the Sixteenth Man at the supper table, the atmosphere of the bunk-house was vibrant with expectation. Tucker came in before the meal was finished, sitting down at the table with the men—a most unusual thing. Lazy J had sized up the stranger—and had made a mistake. Therefore the men of Lazy J expected developments. But nothing occurred until the meal was finished. Then in reply to a question put to him by the Sixteenth Man, Ball spoke. His voice was clear and sharp—every man of the outfit heard it and paused to listen.

“It ain’t much to ride a horse like ‘Purgatory,’ especially if you’ve got an object in view. I didn’t think of riding a horse—any kind of a horse—until two years ago—this Fall past. I was down in Sacramento then, and I heard that my kid brother had been killed riding a horse that had a reputation as a man-killer. I don’t think the kid knowed much about riding a horse, but he had a way about him. He wouldn’t let no man run him. In that respect he was like me.” He paused and looked at the expectant faces of the men, turning his eyes finally toward Deveny.

“I’ve heard that the man who got him to ride the horse that killed him didn’t like him any too well. I’ve heard that this man took a dislike to the kid and got him to ride the horse to get rid of him. It was after this news came to me that I took to riding horses. I wanted to show that range boss that the kid’s brother could ride his horse.

“I’d heard of this ‘Purgatory’ horse over at the place where I work, and I came over special to ride him. I reckon you saw me ride him,” he said, without boast. He smiled with peculiar sarcasm. continuing coldly:

“I reckon even the range boss will be able to ride ‘Purgatory’ now.”

The slur was deliberate and intentional. It brought Deveny to his feet, cursing. All the men at the table, as if by some mysterious telepathy, became aware of the impending crisis. Two or three left the table, others shoved their chairs back and seemed to crouch in them. The Sixteenth Man shuddered, turned pale to the lips, and huddled back against the wall. Only Ball, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette, seemed undisturbed. Yet his eyes, cold with enigmatic purpose, were fixed on Deveny.

The range boss smiled evilly from the end of the table. As he leaned forward his right hand fell upon the butt of his pistol. and he spoke with discordant venom.

“Take that back, you——”

Deveny had his pistol half drawn, but from somewhere about Ball’s shirt there was a flash of metal and, instantaneously, of fire. A cigarette—unrolled—fell to the table. And then Deveny sighed, placed both hands to his chest, and pitched forward upon the table slipping presently to the floor.

Ball, his back to the wall, a pistol in either hand, covered the men of the outfit.

“Up with your hands!” he commanded sharply; “and don’t you move—none of you!” His eyes sought out the Sixteenth Man.

“You saw him try to pull?” he questioned, coldly.

The Sixteenth Man took a step forward—white-faced. “I reckoned we all did.” he said. And then, admiringly, “But you was plum quick!”

“It was a square deal,” said Tucker. “I reckon Deveny wouldn’t have been so reckless in trying to draw his gun if he’d known who you was.”

Ball smiled curiously at Tucker. “I reckon you don’t know either,” he said quietly. His eyes swept the faces of the men.

“My name is Malone,” he said. “I had a brother out here two years ago, and Deveny made him ride ‘Purgatory.’”