Guardians of the Sage Read Online Free

you?”
    The silence that followed grew oppressive. Quantrell began to fidget as Jim’s eyes burned into his.
    â€œClay—I ought to kick you out of here for that,” he said at last. “You talk as though you had something on me. If you have—shoot! I’m not fixing anything for anybody.”
    â€œOf course not!” Quantrell knew he had over-stepped himself. “All I meant was—if you can give me a break, why—I’ll appreciate it.”
    â€œWell, you want to say what you mean with me,” Montana flung back. He pulled himself erect and walked over to the window and gazed up and down the street. Plenty Eagles was pulling out of town with his twelve-mule team.
    Only the droning of the flies, sailing in and out of the unscreened window, and the ticking of the clock on the wall broke the silence as Quantrell rolled another cigarette. As he moistened the paper with his tongue, he raised his eyes to flash a glance of hatred at Montana’s back. “I’ll square that some day,” he promised himself.
    Jim’s eyes had strayed to the road that led into town from the southwest. Quantrell saw him stiffen. He failed to surmise the reason.
    â€œWell, only a few minutes now and you can get started,” he drawled. “All the interested parties are present.”
    â€œYes—thanks to you!” Jim whipped out.
    Quantrell caught the challenge in his voice. “What do you mean?” he demanded as Jim whirled on him.
    â€œJudd Case was in here yesterday morning. Said you’d been talking to him.”
    Quantrell flushed. “No use denying it,” he got out awkwardly. “Just razzing him a little. It was too late to do any harm.”
    â€œI might have known it,” Montana ground out furiously. “You had to play the tin-horn, didn’t you?”
    â€œSay, muchacho , I don’t intend to eat all the dust you kick up!” Quantrell towered above Montana as they faced each other, his mouth cruel and reckless.
    â€œTake a look out the window,” Jim muttered.
    A dozen men were riding into town. They were armed—alert and unfriendly. Quantrell let a grunt of dismay escape him.
    â€œYou know them?” Montana rasped unpleasantly.
    â€œReb Russell and the Bar S bunch from Furnace Creek!” The big fellow’s voice trailed away to a smothered whisper.
    â€œLook the other way—beyond the tracks. See anything ?”
    â€œMy God!” was Quantrell’s answering exclamation.
    â€œYeah! Too late to do any harm, eh? You ought to grow up, Quantrell. This’ll be the old man himself and his South Fork outfit. They’re not here by accident.”
    Downstairs the hum of conversation fell away to an excited whisper. The sober faces of the men who had been waiting about the court-house grew graver as they recognized Reb and his men. They drew together, silent and tight of lip. Suddenly the very air had become charged with a breathless tension.
    Quantrell’s air of confidence had vanished when he turned away from the window, “It’s a show-down now,” he got out. “Are you going through with your play?”
    â€œI haven’t any play left,” Montana answered stonily. “A tin-horn kicked my hand into the discard.”
    Quantrell reared up defiantly, his face white with rage.
    â€œGet going!” Montana warned. “When that crowd downstairs learns the right of this they’ll be looking for you with a rope!”

C HAPTER III TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER
    B ACK in the beginning, when the rape of the West began, the universal intention of cattleman and miner had been to rip out a fortune in a hurry. Nobody was concerned about the land or its future. That was still the thought when Henry Stall, a German butcher-boy, come to California to make his fortune, first set foot in San Francisco.
    Frugal and industrious, he proved an apt pupil. Fifteen years later, men were calling