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lone star ex-con
Saddle Creek, TX: The Crawfords Book 1
kat baxter
 contents

Lone Star Ex-Con

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Thank you for reading!
Saddle Creek, TX: The Crawfords
About the author
 lone star ex-con
. . .

Monroe
I just got out of prison. I literally have blood on my hands. It
doesn’t matter if it was an accident or even justified. I'm tainted.
One look at the bespectacled, curvy librarian, and I’m hooked.
Clean, educated, and polished, Callie is beautiful, sweet, and the
sheriff’s sister. She’s the last person I should want because I’m the
worst person for her. But when she offers to marry me to meet the
conditions of my grandfather’s will, I practically run to the
courthouse.
Callie
I know "Roe" is different the minute he steps into the library. It’s
not his scowl or his tattoos or even the intelligence he tries so hard
to hide. There’s something in his eyes that calls to me. I feel a
connection with him I can’t explain. Of course he’s also the most
devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. He needs a
wife. And he can provide something I want. So despite the fact that
he’s younger and way hotter than me, I offer to meet him at the
altar. But I never expected to fall in love with my husband.
Lone Star Ex-Con
Kat Baxter
Copyright 2022 by Kat Baxter

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events,
locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any
electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by an
information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission
of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Edited by: Emily Beierle-McKaskle

Copyeditor: Jenny Steward
Book cover: Cover Girl Designs

With regard to digital publication, be advised that any alteration of font size or
spacing by the reader could change the author’s original format.
Created with Vellum
 one
. . .

Monroe

I’m in the library on my day off, trying to upload a week’s worth of

work for my online class and trying not to notice the skirt the hot
red-haired librarian is wearing today when the first text comes in. I
know it’s from someone in the family because it’s the custom
ringtone Madison created for us. I ignore the text because I have to
get this paper turned in for my Auditing Theory and Practices class
today and the internet out at the ranch is slow as fuck.
Another text rolls in. I glance down at my phone and see my
brother’s name before I slip my phone into silent mode. I live in the
same house as three of my brothers. I saw Quinn six hours ago.
Ergo, there is nothing he needs to tell me that tops finishing this
paper. Besides, I have enough distractions already.
And by distractions, I mean the sexy librarian.
The red hair. The curls. The infuriating buttons on her cardigan
sweaters. There is nothing overtly sexy about the way this woman
dresses, but, despite that, everything about her does it for me.
I get one day off a week from the ranch when I can cram in all
the work for my online classes. Thursday. Storytime day at the
library. Which means the sexy librarian is always around on
Thursdays.
My brothers and sister and I own and work a ranch just outside
the tiny town of Saddle Creek, Texas. Since cattle don’t give a shit
about weekends, it’s a job that requires long days, and staggered
days off. I could ask my brothers to change days, but there would be
questions. Questions I don’t have answers for.
What am I going to say? I need to change my day off because
there’s a woman in the library I imagine fucking eight ways to
Sunday every time I see her? No way in hell am I admitting that to
my brothers.
So I come here every Thursday to download all my work for the
coming week, upload all the work I’ve done, and quietly lose my
mind imagining what it would be like to unbutton one of her
sweaters. One tiny button at a time.
By eleven, the kids and harried parents are starting to fill up the
nook in the children’s section. It’s a steady stream of kids trotting
past the front desk and calling, “Hello, Ms. Burton!”
I have the perfect view of her from my computer. She greets
each kid by name, beaming at them like their presence at storytime
made her day. That smile unlocks something inside me. I’m not even
sure what it is. All I know is, the more I see it, the more I crave it.
Only, I want it aimed at me.
Today she’s wearing a blue plaid skirt, a simple white button-up
blouse and a navy blue cardigan buttoned halfway up. All those
fucking buttons. She’s like a goddamn present I want to unwrap
every single day.
By the time she starts reading aloud, some book about a pet pig,
I’m hard enough to embarrass myself. Thankfully the kids are hidden
by the half stacks of books in the children’s section, because it’s bad
enough getting a half chub in the public library, let alone surrounded
by kids. But Callie Burton turns me the fuck on. I force myself to
focus on my school work to distract my mind because now is not the
time to be fantasizing about my sexy librarian and her many buttons.
Between the distraction of her reading out loud and the constant
vibrating of my phone on the desk beside me, it takes forever for me
to finish the paper, run it through the grammar software, and send it
off to my online professor.
I log out of the library computer just as the last of the kids are
leaving. Storytime is long over and Ms. Burton is checking out books
for them. I walk past the main desk on my way out. I know what I
should do. I need to keep my head down and walk out without even
glancing at her.
Because a woman like Ms. Burton … a good woman, smart,
educated, and kind, in addition to being exactly the kind of sexy that
drives me crazy … a woman like that is way out of my league.
I know what I should do, but I’ve never been the kind of guy
who is good at following orders, even when they’re orders I give
myself. So instead of doing the right thing, I slow my steps as I
approach the desk. I wait for her to look up and meet my gaze. Her
cheeks tinge pink before I say a word.
“Ms. Burton,” I say slowly, tipping my head in a nod.
Her eyes go wide and her pupils dilate. The pink in her cheeks
darkens and spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the
buttoned up collar of her white shirt. After a second, she presses her
lips together in disapproval and turns her attention back to the kid,
handing over a stack of books.
I’m about to step up to the counter and ask her for a book
recommendation when my phone rings. Only two people in my
contact list will ring through when I’ve silenced notification: Quinn
and Madison. Quinn hates talking on the phone, so I know it must
be Madison. She’s the only girl in the family.
I duck my head and turn to the library door as I pull my phone
out of my back pocket. Hitching my backpack up on my shoulder, I
push through the double doors and out on to the street as I accept
the call.
“Hey, Mad, what’s up?”
It’s cool for March, but the sky is clear and so bright it almost
hurts to look at it after being inside all morning.
“What’s up is you need to fucking check your texts.” Madison
sounds out of breath like she’s walking somewhere, and way more
annoyed than she usually does when she’s talking to me. She has
sass for days, but I’m her favorite, so she usually reins it in around
me. “Where the hell have you been?”
“At the library. Why?”
“The library?” She snorts. “That’s where you spend your day off?”
“Yeah. I spend my day off at the library. Anything to get out of
the damn house.” Quinn, Harrison and I all live at the ranch in the
house we grew up in. Hayes, Harrison’s twin, lives in Austin, a
couple of hundred miles east of Saddle Creek and Johnny is still off
at Texas A&M. I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do when he
graduates in May and moves home, because with the three of us in
the house it’s already too much. “The library is quiet and the internet
doesn’t suck. So yeah, that’s where I go.”
“Okay, nerd,” she teases. “Just get your ass over to Ace’s.”
My steps slow as I approach the beat up old truck I’ve been
driving since high school. “Ace’s? What?”
“Emergency family meeting. Just get here.” A door squeaks in the
background and the sounds of passing cars are replaced by low
chatter and the clinking of dishes. “And read your damn texts.”
She hangs up before I can say anything else.
I open my truck long enough to throw my bag on the floorboard,
then shut the door and lock it. The library is only a block off the
town square and since I’m parked in public parking, I leave my truck
where it is and head back toward the square, where Ace’s, a local
burger joint that’s been a landmark forever, is located.
I pull up my texts. I have over a dozen texts in The Jolly
Ranchers text chain. That’s what Madison named the family text
chain. Because she thinks she’s funny like that.

<The Jolly Ranchers>

Quinn: Just left the Rocking C. We need to meet up

ASAP.
Harrison: What’s up? The Dark Lord pissing you off
again? What’d he do this time?
 Madison: You can’t let him bait you. If you get pissed
off every time he calls you a pussy, it just amuses
him. Don’t let him get to you.
Quinn: Just get the troops together. Preferably
somewhere with drinks. I’ll be there in three hours.
Johnny: Drinks? We’re meeting for drinks? I’ll be
there.
Hayes: I’m at work. In Austin, remember? I can’t just
leave and meet y’all for drinks.
Harrison: If Quinn says it’s an emergency, then it’s an
emergency.
Madison: In other words, get your ass home pretty
boy.
Madison: Johnny, you stay where you are. You have
midterms next week.
Quinn: No, we need Johnny too.
Harrison: Hayes, can you wait until Johnny gets to
Austin so he can ride with you?
Hayes: No, because I’m not fucking leaving work for
this drama. Whatever it is, y’all handle it without
me.
Johnny: I can drive myself.
Harrison: Just got off the phone with Quinn. He’s not
fucking around. Get your ass to Ace’s by 1:00
Johnny: Wait. Can Monroe even go into Ace’s?
Madison: Yes, dumbass. He can go into Ace’s. It’s a
restaurant that serves alcohol, not a bar. His parole
is specifically about bars.
Johnny: Just asking
Johnny: <GIF of a person shrugging>
Madison: Stop texting while you drive.

The texts keep going but I stop reading and pick up the pace
because it’s already after one-thirty.
 I walk into Ace’s and nostalgia stabs me like a knife to the chest.
Inside Ace’s, the lighting is dim and the air is filled with the smell
of beer, grease, and smoke. Of course, no one has smoked in Ace’s
in probably twenty years, but I can still smell the smoke that seeped
into the wood paneling from all those decades that it was a bar
before the current owner took over and made it into a restaurant.
It feels like a Texas honky-tonk, which is probably why it
regularly makes whatever best-fill-in-the-blank-in-Texas list that
Texas Monthly is peddling. Best chicken fried steak. Best burger. Best
fries. Best arugula salad topped with locally-sourced artisanal goat
cheese. Whatever. Whatever foods trendy people care about, they
serve it here, along with a hefty serving of Texas flavor.
I haven’t stepped foot into Ace’s in years. Not since I got out the
Army—because I hadn’t really had the chance yet back then. And
not since I got out of prison—because even though it’s not a bar, it’s
too close to being a bar for my comfort.
Still, Quinn called the emergency family meeting here. Despite
the string of texts, I still don’t know what the hell the meeting is
about. But Quinn isn’t a drama queen. If he’s called us all together,
we show up.
Plus, Ace’s does have good fries, so the afternoon won’t be a
total loss.
I find the rest of the Crawfords sitting around a table in the back
corner of the restaurant. True to his threats, Hayes is nowhere to be
seen, but Quinn, Harrison, Madison, and Johnny are all there. Each
of them has a pint in front of them. Madison’s is fresh. The guys’ are
almost empty. They are all wearing expressions ranging from
shocked to grim.
I slide into one of the empty chairs. “Who pissed in your coffee
this morning?”
Madison pauses mid-sip and glares at me.
There’s a fair amount of maternal chiding in that look. Out of all
of us, Madison looks the most like mom and I see the resemblance
strongest when she’s giving me a look that says Sit down. Shut up.
And mind your manners.
 Before I can ask what the hell is going on, a waitress I don’t
recognize ambles over and deposits another round of pints in front
of my brothers. She cocks a hip and smiles in my direction. “You
want a Shiner, too?”
“Just water. Thanks.”
Shiner Bock, the best beer in Texas, is brewed not that far from
here, but, like Ace’s fries, it’s another thing I’ve gone without. When
you’re out on parole, you don’t drink unless you want to end up back
in prison. Even though I’ve never had a drinking problem, I still don’t
want to risk it.
A moment later, there’s a water in front of me. No one has said
anything and I can tell from the set of Quinn’s jaw that he was
waiting for the waitress to put some distance between her ears and
his words. Like any small town, gossip in Saddle Creek is as popular
as a Church potluck.
“What the hell is up?” I ask, scooting my chair closer.
Quinn clenches his jaw like he’s too upset to talk and it’s Madison
who answers.
“Grandpa Crawford had a stroke.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Grandpa Crawford?” I ask, because none of
us call him that. Then I lean across the table to clink my water glass
against her pint. “If Voldemort’s finally ready to kick the bucket, why
the hell aren’t these celebration drinks?”
I don’t want to sound like an insensitive ass, but our grandfather
is mean, controlling, and manipulative.
Finally, Quinn answers. “He had the stroke nine days ago.”
“What? Nine days? And we just now found out about it?”
Quinn, normally not much a drinker, downs most of the pint
before setting it down, his expression grim. “Lewis didn’t want us to
know.”
“That fucker,” Harrison mutters.
Lewis, our dad’s middle brother, is absolutely a dick. Where our
grandfather, who we openly call The Dark Lord, is pure, self-serving
evil, with a heavy dose of racism and classism thrown on top, Uncle
Lewis is a more subtle form of evil. He’s conniving and manipulative,
the kind of guy who will butter you up, grin, slap you on the
shoulder, and then shiv you in the side before you have a chance to
see the knife. Metaphorically speaking.
“I don’t get it,” I admit. “He just wasn’t going to tell us? How was
that going to work?”
Quinn shakes his head. “We’re here in Saddle Creek. The big
ranch is nearly three hundred miles away. There’s no way we would
know anything is up unless someone contacts us. The only reason I
went up to the big ranch at all is because Aiden texted me yesterday
and hinted that I should visit.”
Aiden, our cousin, is a decent human being, no thanks to his
father. “I assume he’s back on his feet, right?” I ask.
Quinn just shakes his head.
Madison says, gently, “It doesn’t look good.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that our
grandfather, The Dark Lord himself, had a stroke. I would have
sworn the asshole was too stubborn to be ill and too mean to die.
“How long does he have?”
Madison answers. “Just under two months.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“You know what he’s like.” Harrison sighs. “He always believed
the rest of us are absolute morons so he planned for every
contingency. According to Uncle Umbridge, Grandpa’s living will
states that if he ever has to go on life support, he’s to be kept alive
for at least two months.”
Johnny snorts. “Everyone else has DNR’s so shit like this doesn’t
happen, to save the family the expense and the grief of watching
their loved one waste away. But not our grandpa. Not The Dark Lord
himself. Naturally he assumed that he’d be able to claw his way out
of hell through sheer force of will.”
I almost wish I had something stronger than water in front of
me, because I could drink to that.
That’s our grandfather in a nutshell. There is no way he’d leave
any decisions about his life up to any of us. It’s not even that he’d
be afraid we’d do him wrong. He just assumes we’re incompetent.
I take another sip of water, my mind spinning with the news, still
unsure why the mood around the table is so grim. Yes, he’s
grandfather, and even though he’s an ass, none of us are the type to
openly celebrate his demise. But none of us are close to him.
Certainly not close enough for us to grieve deeply.
“Okay, so The Dark Lord’s reign is finally ending, but why do you
all look like your favorite dog just died?”
“The question you should be asking” –Quinn tips his glass in my
direction—“is why Uncle Umbridge didn’t want us to know about the
stroke.”
“Okay, so why—”
Johnny cuts me off before I can get the question out. “Because
he’s up to his same old shady shit. That’s why. Did you know The
Dark Lord put all of his assets into a trust?”
“No, but that’s not surprising.”
Thanks to the classes I’ve been taking to get my CPA license, I
know more about assets and trusts and portfolios than I ever
wanted to. When I graduated high school, I never imagined myself
as the go-to-college type. I had too much restless energy for that.
The Army seemed like the perfect place for me. And it was—until my
injury, and then the fight and my incarceration. In prison, with way
too much time on my hands, I started taking classes. An accounting
degree made the most sense.
With a felony on my record, I probably won’t ever get a desk job.
Not as an accountant or a CPA. I don’t harbor any illusions about
that.
But right now, we pay a firm to do the books for the Little C. If
I’m a licensed CPA, I can take over that job and save us that
expense.
“Trusts like that are common,” I tell the others. “Especially for a
man with assets like he has.”
The Little C ranch is exactly that. At nearly six hundred acres, it’s
not exactly little, but it’s barely average. To us, it’s a perfect little
slice of paradise in the hill country. We run cattle, but it’s a small
operation. Madison and Harrison have all kinds of plans to take
advantage of Saddle Creek’s growing popularity as a travel
destination, but for now we’re just a small town ranch. The big
ranch, the Rocking C, on the other hand, covers hundreds of
thousands of acres in West Texas. It’s not as big as the King Ranch,
but it’s still huge. And, since it’s West Texas, the cattle on the ranch
are just one slice of the financial pie.
We all might live modestly, but our grandfather has serious
money.
“The problem isn’t the trust itself,” Quinn says, finally chiming in.
“The problem is who’s going to inherit the trust. Uncle Lewis is the
trustee, which is no big surprise. I think we all assumed that
Grandpa’s assets would be divided equally between Uncle Lewis and
the six of us as one entity, as Dad’s heirs.”
“I’m assuming from your tone that that’s not how it’s written.”
“Apparently, he was obsessed with making sure the land and
assets stayed in the family and would be passed down only to
people who were his blood relation.”
Johnny gave a snort of laughter. “And people wonder why we call
him the Dark Lord—with his obsession with pure blood? Jesus.”
“So what’s the problem?” I gesture to my brothers and sister.
“We’re all his direct descendants. If some portion of his assets go to
us, then it stays in the family.”
“The problem is,” Quinn says, “That none of us are married.”
“So?” I ask. From the corner of my eye, I see the normally
unflappable Harrison shift in his chair.
“So, if we ever do get married, our holdings could end up being
owned by our spouse. Or our spouse’s child. Apparently, Grandpa
didn’t want that. So according to his will, anyone who isn’t married
at the time of his death, with an ironclad prenup approved by his
lawyers, gets cut out.”
Harrison gives a nervous, bitter sounding laugh, taking another
drag from his pint. “We are all fucked.”
Johnny shrugs. “Okay, so let’s say the old geezer dies in two
months and we’re all still single, because, let’s face it, none of us
want to jump through his damn hoops. So what? We’re cut out of his
will and Uncle Umbridge gets everything. That’s obviously why Lewis
didn’t tell us about the stroke, right? So we don’t get the money. We
don’t get the land in West Texas. Yeah, none of us is rich. But it’s not
like we want his damn money anyway.”
 But even as Johnny’s talking, I’m putting together the pieces in
my mind.
Johnny might be right about the money. None of us care that
much about the money. Grandpa was a dick to our father, his own
son, and he was even worse to our Mama. No amount of money can
make up for how he treated us all after our father died. If it was just
the money, I suspect we’d all shoot him the finger and walk away.
But …
“It’s not just about the money, is it?” I pin Quinn with a look. “He
owns the water and mineral rights on the Little C, doesn’t he?”
The Little C originally belonged to our maternal grandparents. It’s
the ranch our Mama grew up on. After Dad died, when she had
trouble keeping it afloat on her own, she sold the mineral rights to
our grandpa.
Instead of just helping out his daughter-in-law and his
grandchildren, the bastard bartered for the most valuable part of any
land in Texas. Because that is the kind of asshole our grandfather is.
The kind who will screw over his own grandchildren to make a buck.
“Exactly,” Quinn says, the glint of anger back in his gaze. “Which
means if some of us don’t get married, and damn fast, Uncle Lewis
will own the mineral rights to the Little C before summer’s end. And
who the hell knows what he would do to our ranch.”
 two
. . .

Callie

Spring break at the public library is both great and terrible. Great
because I love having the library flooded with kids. The week is full
of daily special events—puppet shows, magic shows, and face
painting. Terrible because of the long days and the pure, unfiltered
chaos.
Today’s event will likely be the highlight though, with the petting
zoo brought to us by The Farm Lady, aka my best friend Rory.
This is the fifth year in a row Rory has brought her collection of
miniature horses, tiny goats, and fluffy rabbits. Rory and I met when
she first moved to Saddle Creek six years ago. She grew up in the
hustle and bustle of Dallas, but she is happiest surrounded by
barnyard animals and compost.
She is currently outside setting up all her temporary pens in the
grassy park outside the library. I’m busy handing out flyers for our
summer reading program to all the parents when my part-time
employee, Veronica sidles up.
“He’s here again,” Veronica says from between her teeth.
I am well aware which he she means, but I don’t know why she’s
telling me. Monroe Crawford has been a frequent visitor to the
library for the last several weeks. He’s a quiet and polite man, but
those qualities are only noticeable after you get over the shock of his
appearance. Well over six feet tall and broad and muscular, he looks
more like a professional football player than a man who haunts the
stacks of a small town public library. Yet here he is, not quite daily,
but multiple times a week.
“I’m sure he’ll come speak to you soon,” I tell Veronica.
She snorts. “He’s not here to see me.”
I turn to stare at the college-age woman. Veronica is blonde,
young, and gorgeous. I’m sure she’s the reason he comes here so
often. Since she’s clearly being modest, I say, “Well, I suppose he
could just be that voracious of a reader.”
She rolls her eyes. “Callie, please tell you’re not that blind. That
man watches you like a mouse hunting a bird.”
My heart thumps. “I beg your pardon? He does no such thing.
Also, you have that wrong because mice don’t hunt birds. Do you
mean a cat?”
Veronica shakes her head, smiling smugly. “You’ll see.”
I click my tongue at her. “You are ridiculous. And also, this is
proof that you’re a romantic at heart and clearly belong in our
romance book club. We meet this Friday night. You should join us.”
“I might.” She leaves behind the counter with the rolling cart of
books. “I’ve got to go shelve these.”
I nod. “When you’re done, please print more flyers about the
summer reading program and just set them on the counter. Peter
will be back soon to run circulation while I’m outside with the kids
and the animals.”
I watch Veronica round the stacks, shaking my head at her overly
vivid imagination. Despite that, my eyes find Mr. Crawford sitting at
the computer he normally chooses. I nearly jump out of my skin
when I realize he’s looking directly at me. Veronica’s words still fresh
in my mind, I give him a smile that feels tight and unnatural, before
turning away to busy myself with a stack of papers.
The paperwork documenting this week’s events doesn’t need to
be reorganized, but I shuffle through the pages anyway, focusing on
them like they hold the secrets of the universe. Anything to keep my
gaze from straying back to him.
He is not looking at me like that. I can’t afford to entertain those
thoughts, regardless of what Veronica said. He’s so handsome. And
I’m… well, I’m a thirty-five year old, nearsighted librarian with a limp
and too much jiggle in my wiggle. At least that’s how my Aunt Rosie
would have put it. Meaning I’m on the other side of chubby.
He’s young and so masculine and virile and…
“Excuse me, Ms. Burton,” the deep voice says from behind me.
I squeak and then turn careful not to tangle my cane in my skirt
and trip myself. He’s so tall; I have to tilt my head back to see his
face. And I just can’t help myself as I catalogue all of his features.
Those eyes that can’t quite decide if they’re green or brown, That
smile that’s part mischievous bad-boy, part boy next door. His blond
hair that’s a little bit shaggy on top, but trimmed on the sides and
back. His white t-shirt clings to his chest and shoulders like a lover,
molding to those impressive muscles. He rubs his knuckles across his
cheek and I can hear the bristle of his whiskers. I want to reach up
and rub his cheek too or rub my cheek against his.
What in the hell am I even thinking? And he asked me a
question. Like thirty seconds ago. Or maybe even a minute and I’m
just standing here staring at him like I’m an idiot.
I clear my throat, because what else do I do? “Did you need help
with something?” I force myself to ask. “If you’re looking for
Veronica, she’s shelving books in the non-fiction stacks.”
His brows lower and his head shakes so infinitesimally, I almost
miss it. “Who is Veronica?”
“The young woman who works up here periodically.”
His mouth shifts into a half grin and it’s so blinding that I’m
pretty sure I see Jesus, Elvis and I now know aliens exist. “Is that
library humor?”
I think back to what I said. “Oh, periodically?” I snort because
yes, folks, I can get even more awkward. “Unintentional, but yes,
that is good library humor.”
“Callie!” Peter calls as he enters the front door. “Callie, Rory
needs your help out there with her farm animals.”
 “Oh, of course.” I grab hold of my cane and start to move away
from the counter, then remember Monroe standing there. “Did you
need something in particular?”
He shakes his head, his blond hair, a little long on top, flops onto
his forehead. “Just going to check out these books.” He sets them on
the counter.
“Peter should be able to help you. I’ll see you next time.” I eye
his stack of books and smile. “Jim Butcher is a good choice.” Then I
hobble my way around the counter and out the front door, not
turning to see if he’s watching me limp.
I hope he’s not, but I’m all too aware of my uneven gait. When
you’re under sixty and walk with a cane, everyone watches.
Everyone wonders. Usually, it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. But
today, for reasons I don’t want to consider, I wish that just once I
walked with the natural grace of someone who hadn’t had her pelvis
fractured at the age of nine.
Once I’m outside I’m met with the sounds of Rory’s miniature
horse and the bleats of her little goats as they hop around in the
pen. There are already moms holding their kiddo’s hands and
looking at the animals, but they’re doing their best to keep their
distance since the petting zoo doesn’t officially start for another
twenty minutes. Rory, however, is nowhere to be seen.
I scan the small park, and then the parking lot, before I spot my
friend, leaning against the side of her truck, looking positively green.
I hurry towards her as quickly as I’m physically able.
“Rory, what’s wrong?” I ask as soon as I reach her side.
She holds up a finger then runs behind her truck where I hear
the distinct sounds of her retching.
“Oh, no,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” that deep voice asks from my side. A voice
that’s becoming more and more familiar.
I press a palm to my chest, hoping to slow my suddenly
pounding heart as I turn to face him. “I don’t understand how you
can be a giant and not make any noise when you move.”
His brows raise and his lips quirk.
“Sorry,” I say. “You just startled me.”
 “So what’s wrong? You said, ‘oh no.’”
“My friend, Aurora, Rory,”—I gesture in the direction of her truck
—“Anyways, this is her petting farm and it’s our activity for the kids
today, but she’s”—Another round of retching sounds from around the
truck and I wince—“Obviously under the weather. I don’t know if I
can handle all the animals myself.
Rory pops up from behind her truck. “I’m so sorry, Callie.”
“Sweetie, this isn’t your fault. Are you okay? Do you need to go
to the hospital?”
She shakes her head. “No. I think it’s a touch of food poisoning.”
“Why don’t you turn your truck on, get the AC going and sit in
there and cool off? I’ll try to get you something to drink so you don’t
get dehydrated. And I’ll figure out how to do the animals. Maybe
we’ll just open the bunny pen up and they can just look at the other
animals?”
The kids will be so disappointed, but what can I do? I shrug.
“I’ll help,” Monroe says. “Let me put my books in my truck. Then
I’ll grab your friend a drink from the vending machine and be back
to help with the animals.”
I blink in surprise. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. I want to. Besides, I grew up on a ranch. I’ve
handled these kinds of animals before. Normally the larger variety,
but I think I can handle it.”
I give him a nod and smile. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to comment about his nice manners.
But the minute he turns around, I’m struck by the sight of his
perfectly sculpted butt and the way his worn jeans mold to it. I’m
surrounded by children and I am literally staring at a man’s butt.
Clearly, I am going to hell.
I don’t have long to contemplate my future doom, because things
move quickly after that. Half an hour later, Monroe is manning the
goat pen and the miniature horse, and I’m safely sitting in a chair in
the bunny pen while the youngest of the kids squeal and try to catch
the hoppers.
 “Don’t pull their ears, Liam,” I say. “You wouldn’t like it if I pulled
your ears, would you?”
He gives me a gummy grin and shakes his head.
I have to force myself to keep from staring at Monroe. He’s been
either in a squat position or on one knee so he’s down on the level
with the kids as he shows them how to feed the goats. He’s patient
with their questions and smiles at them, so gentle and kind. I’m in
so much trouble and I’m thankful we don’t have this petting zoo
here every day or my ovaries would probably explode. That is if
they’re still awake and alive in there. Looking at Monroe certainly
makes me feel like they’re awake. I haven’t looked at a man, felt
attraction towards a man in so many years, I’d forgotten what that
zing feels like when it ricochets through your belly.
At some point in the first hour, Monroe leaves the goat pen to
walk Rory’s pony back into the trailer. He shoots me a wink as he’s
coming back to the goat pen.
“The kids kept asking about the pink arm hanging from his belly,”
he explains with a grin.
It takes me a second to put two and two together, then I feel my
eyes widen and I can’t hide my own giggle. When I look back over
at Monroe, he’s staring at me like—well, I don’t really know like
what, but it stops the laugh right in my throat and I swallow it and
look back at the bunnies.
By the time most of the kids have left, I swear I’ve got hay in my
hair and bunny poop on my shoes. Thankfully Rory’s food poisoning
episode has passed, and while she’s still a little weak, she’s got some
color back in her cheeks. Monroe is helping her load up all her
animals and I’m standing outside telling all the kids goodbye.
“Do you think it’s appropriate to have a man like him here with
the children?” a snide voice asks from beside me.
I don’t even have to look to know it’s Miranda Dillard. We grew
up together, though she’s my younger brother Caleb’s age. Suffice it
to say, I’ve never liked her very much.
I don’t take my eyes off of Monroe. “You mean tall, handsome,
and helpful? Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem.” I nod
sagely. Then I go in for the kill shot. “Sure seems like Dwayne likes
him a lot.” Then I look over at her. Just in time to see her head
swivel in that direction to see her son hanging on Monroe’s every
word.
“Dwayne Ulysses Dillard, you get your tail over here right now!”
she shrieks.
Dwayne Ulysses? That poor kid. They gave him the initials, DUD.
Why would you do that to a child?
Miranda scurries away from me.
A man like him.
“I’ll call you,” Rory yells out the window and then she’s driving
away with her truck and trailer. My phone beeps in my pocket and I
pull it out to see I have a text from her.

Rory: If you don’t ride that man like a carnival ride, I

will never speak to you again.
Me: I don’t even know what that means.
Me: Do not respond to this while you’re driving!

Monroe walks towards me, and I quickly pocket my phone. Thank

God for the brilliant clothing designers who finally decided to start
putting pockets in women’s skirts.
“Thank you again for all your help. Today would have surely been
a disaster without you,” I tell him as he approaches.
He grins. “I had fun. It’s been a while since I was around so
many kids. They ask so many questions.”
“About the horny pony,” I say. Then I close my eyes because I
cannot believe I just said that out loud to this man. Someone kill me
now.
He laughs. “They would not stop asking about it and the moms
were horrified.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of the issue so we didn’t have to
have an impromptu birds and the bees discussion. That would have
been a storytime to remember.”
I look down and see what is undeniably poop of some origin on
his jeans. I wince.
“I think you got hit.” I point. “I’m pretty sure my shoes are
covered in rabbit poo, but I’m sorry about your jeans.”
“Don’t worry about it, Buttons. It’s not the first time an animal
has shit on me. Probably won’t be the last. You need help with
anything else?” He looks around us.
Buttons? I shake my head. “No. Peter is closing up today, so I’m
actually leaving soon myself. Thanks again and I’ll see you around.”
“You definitely will. Have a good evening.” And then he turns and
walks away and like the damn pervert I am, I stare at his butt again!
 three
. . .

Monroe

I’ve met my brother, Harrison, at Ruthie’s Diner. It’s on the square

downtown, conveniently located about a block from the library. I
think it’s after hours for my little librarian, but still knowing I’m close
to where she goes every day has me feeling aware and on edge.
Harrison isn’t the most talkative of my siblings, but he’s not
normally this quiet and he’s the one that asked me to meet him.
We’re halfway through our meal and he’s just staring out the window
between bites.
“Harrison, I’m getting older by the minute. Just talk.”
He stares at me for a few breaths then rubs a hand down his
face. “You know how we said that we just need the majority of us to
get married for the trust thing?”
“It just happened yesterday, brother, yeah, I remember.” I
remember being so fucking thankful that my siblings won’t have to
rely on me to get married to save our damn ranch. Would it help? Of
course, but let’s be honest, I’m not going to find anyone willing to
marry me with my prison record.
“Here’s the thing,” Harrison says. “I’m kind of already married.”
 “Wait, what? Did this happen while I was locked up and no one
told me?”
He shakes his head. “No one knows. Fuck.”
“You’re going to have to start at the beginning because I’m lost.”
“I don’t have time. I just wanted to tell you that I’m leaving
town. I’ve got to go find her and talk to her and figure out what to
do next. I’ll text you as soon as I know anything.”
“What do I tell the others?”
“Tell them the truth. I just didn’t have time to deal with all the
questions, especially since I don’t have any answers yet.” He pulls
some cash out of his wallet and drops it on the table.
I stand up and hug him because I’m not too fucking proud to
hug my siblings. You never know when you won’t get to see them or
touch them for months or years at a time.
“Be safe. Let me know if you need anything,” I say. Then I grab
his arm. “Hayes know?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. No reason for him to. I’ll be back
when I can.”
I’m just leaving the diner when I spot a familiar shade of red hair
on the park bench across the street. The town square in Saddle
Creek is exactly what you would think. A square of streets lined with
offices and restaurants and stores, and a beautiful green space
surrounding the old limestone county courthouse. One branch of the
largest live oak dips nearly to the ground, shading the park bench
where the prim and proper Ms. Burton is seated.
I jog across the street and make my way across the paved path
to the bench where my sexy librarian sits eating an ice cream cone.
The dichotomy of her—literally—buttoned up exterior and her
sensual attention to the ice cream cone … Fuck me. It’s like custom-
made porn.
Her pink tongue slips out and swirls over the ice cream lapping
up some of the cold treat. She’s got an e-reader in her hand, and
she smiles at something she’s reading. That grin is like a lasso to my
heart. And my legs, evidently, because I’m moving towards her
faster now.
 She’s completely absorbed in her book and doesn’t look up until
my shadow falls across her reader.
I sit next to her, probably too close for two people that don’t
know each other very well, but I crave her nearness. I know she’s
way too good for the likes of me, but I just can’t help myself. I want
to know everything about this woman. I want to lean closer and see
what she smells like where that tender skin of her neck meets her
shoulder. I want to touch those russet-colored tresses and see if
they’re as soft as they look. I want to kiss her mouth and see if
those lips are as pillowy as they seem.
This woman has me tied up in knots and she doesn’t seem to
even notice.
“Hello, Mr. Crawford.”
I shake my head. “Call me Roe, or Monroe if you prefer.”
“All right, Roe.”
“You have a little bit—” I intend to point to the small glob of ice
cream at the corner of her mouth, instead I just wipe it off with my
thumb. Then I bring my thumb to my lips and lick off the sweet
treat. “Vanilla?”
Her lips are parted and her pupils are blown and goddamn if I
don’t want to press this woman against a tree and kiss the hell out
of her. She swallows visibly and nods.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I point in the opposite direction. “Do
you want me to leave you to your book and ice cream?”
“No. I can read any time. And I was just about done with this.”
She takes a quick lick and then stands and walks to the trashcan.
My southern boy manners fight the urge to offer to do it for her,
but I sense that it would be more offensive. She might be self-
conscious about her cane or her unbalanced gait, but I find her so
damn sexy that it’s all just a part of the woman I want to know more
about.
She settles back on the bench and I’m pleased that she doesn’t
sit further away from me.
“What were you reading?” I ask.
“A historical romance about a woman who favors a young Queen
Victoria and has to go undercover to pose as the monarch while the
real queen is hidden for safety from a would-be assassination plot.”
She smiles and I swear to Christ she has an honest to God
twinkle in her eyes. This woman is like a Disney princess come to
life. She’s so sweet I’m surprised there aren’t bluebirds braiding her
hair.
“That sounds exciting.”
“It is.”
“So where’s the romance come in?”
“With the royal guard protecting her. Because the assassins are
still after the queen—well the fake queen—so he has to protect her
which, of course means sharing one bed. In romance novels, there is
always only one bed.”
I shove away my mental images of sharing a bed with Callie
because right now, I just want to keep hearing her voice.
“Is romance what you mostly read?” I ask.
“No. I read a little bit of everything. But romance is my favorite. I
also host a romance book club at the library two nights a month.”
“Do you have a lot of members?”
“A fair number,” she says with a grin.
“Any men?”
“You’re welcome to come to our next meeting and see for
yourself.”
“Maybe I will. So when did you move to Saddle Creek?” I ask.
She looks at me and then her head falls back and she laughs. It’s
such a hearty, no-holds-barred, pure joyful sound that I can’t help
but smile back at her. She’s joy personified and something in her
presence soothes me; quiets that restlessness I haven’t been able to
rid myself of since I left the Middle East. It only got worse during my
time in prison. Nothing like time in prison to think about all the blood
on my hands.
I shouldn’t even be talking to this woman. She’s so beautiful and
pure and sweet. And I’m nothing but a dirty soldier with a string of
bad fucking choices behind me.
Still I can’t help myself when I tell her. “You should laugh more
often. I was going to tell you that at the petting zoo, but I didn’t get
a chance.”
 “Thank you.”
“So why was my question funny?”
“Because I’ve lived here all my life.”
I frown. “How is that possible? I’ve lived here all my life. I would
have remembered you.”
“Doubtful. I was homeschooled until high school and even then,
I’m six years older than your older brother. I think Quinn graduated
with my brother though, Caleb Burton?”
“Shit. The sheriff is your brother?”
She releases a small chuckle. “Yeah, he is.”
Further proof that I did not belong sitting here with her.
“Technically not my entire life. I moved here when I was eight.
Our Aunt Rosie raised us,” she says. “After the car accident, at least,
when our parents were killed. That’s also how my hip got messed
up. Anyways, that’s why I was homeschooled for a while. Caleb went
to school the whole time.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t
know why I told you all of that.”
“You can tell me anything,” I admit. Her brow furrows, in what I
hope is confusion, not fear. I may feel like a damn stalker, but I
certainly don’t want her to be afraid of me. So I explain away my
admission. “I like the sound of your voice. It’s soothing.”
She winkles her nose. “Is that a polite way of telling me that I
have a boring voice that could put you to sleep?”
I laugh. “No, not at all. I go to study at the library and get my
school work turned in because our Wi-Fi out at the ranch is really
slow. But I always stop what I’m doing and listen when you do
storytime with the kids.”
A blush spreads across her cheeks and down her throat onto the
minimal part of her chest that I can see. That pretty pink skin
disappears beneath her blouse and those infernal buttons. Those
fucking buttons keep me up at night.
“That’s very kind of you to say, Roe.”
I nod. “Your Aunt Rosie, she was the librarian when we were
growing up?”
A wistful smile spreads across Callie’s wide mouth. “Yes. She’s
obviously why I became a librarian. I spent so much time in those
stacks as a kid. And her house isn’t much different. Caleb and I
inherited that as well, but he let me have it.” She lifts a shoulder. “I
suppose he figures since I’ll probably be an old maid like Rosie was,
I should get the creepy old Victorian downtown. He has a newer
ranch-style house at the edge of town. But I love my house and
wouldn’t trade it so I don’t mind.”
“Why would you be an old maid?”
Her expression changes and the blush intensifies. She stands and
wobbles a bit on her feet.
I stand, too, and catch her elbow, steadying her. “Callie?”
“I need to get home.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“No. It’s just down the block. Have a good day.” And then she
walks off leaving me there, staring after her like a fool. Obviously, I
made some kind of mistake, but I don’t have a fucking clue what I
did wrong.
I rub at the back of my hair. “Fuck.” I follow behind her, at a
distance, just to make sure she gets home safely. I know where her
Aunt Rosie lived. I don’t mean to be a creeper, but I clearly upset
her and I just want to make sure she’s okay.
When I see her climb the three steps up to the wrap-around
porch of the massive white Victorian house, I turn around and head
for my truck. It’s probably for the best. Callie Burton is way too good
for a man like me.
She wants romance and love and sweetness and all I have to
offer is filthy, sweaty sex and plenty of orgasms. I’d keep her safe,
but hell, her brother is the sheriff so she clearly doesn’t need me for
that.
“Evening, Monroe.”
Speak of the fucking devil. I turn to face her brother and he’s
decked out in all his sheriff gear, his hand resting on the handle of
his baton.
“Sheriff,” I say, inclining my head.
“I understand you’ve been spending quite a bit of time at the
library these days. Any particular reason?”
 “As a matter of fact, yes. They have a great selection of books,
which I appreciate. And their Wi-Fi is faster than mine at home.”
“Any other reason?”
“What are you asking me, Sheriff?” I ask.
“Just that I hear you’ve been visiting with my sister on more than
one occasion.” He nods over to the bench where Callie and I were
just sitting.
“Your sister is a grown woman.”
“And you are convicted felon.”
His words pour over me like a bucket of iced water. “I hear your
message. Loud and clear.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
I nod and walk to my truck. It was a good reminder. I might want
Callie Burton, but I sure as fuck don’t deserve her.
 four
. . .

Callie

I’ve just sat down on my couch with a big bowl of buttered popcorn
and a queued up episode of True Murder when my phone rings.
I already know it’s Rory. The only two people who call me are her
and my brother. And I already had to deal with a call from him
earlier. I smile at the picture of the baby goat face on my screen.
“Hello, Rory.”
“You do not sound nearly excited enough to be the woman on
the receiving end of Mr. Tall, Blond and Sexy’s flirting.”
My silly heart pounds at her words, but I ruthlessly squash the
feeling. Of course, he flirts with me. He’s a flirt. I’m sure he treats
every woman that way. Because it can’t possibly be me. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
“Girl, Jesus himself is going to come down and smite you for
lying like that. Tell me you didn’t notice the way he looked at you
and helped you?”
“He was helping the library and the kids.”
I can actually hear her eyes rolling over the phone.
“Callie Louise Burton, I’m going to drive myself over there and
give you a stern talking to.”
 I smile because there is no one in the world like Rory. She might
be younger than me, but she is the best friend I’ve had. “Louise is
not my middle name.”
“Whatever. Not the point. Seriously, Cal, you have to have
noticed,” she says, her voice more gentle this time.
I exhale a slow breath. “Yes, I’ve noticed. But before you get all
crazy excited and start thinking it’s something it’s not, I’m sure he’s
like that with every woman. Some southern boys are just charming
that way.”
“He wasn’t like that with me,” she snaps.
“You were vomiting.”
“Fair point. Does he flirt with the other women in the library? All
the moms?”
He didn’t know who Veronica was when I asked him. And I’ve
never seen him look at any of the other women. I think back to
earlier on the park bench when he wiped that bit of ice cream off my
mouth then licked if off his thumb. It was the single most erotic
thing I’ve ever seen. But I’m definitely not going to tell Rory about it.
Instead I swing the conversation in a slightly different direction.
“Caleb called me earlier to warn me to ‘stay away from Monroe
Crawford because he’s not the sort of man I should associate with.’”
She snorts. “He would. Your brother acts like he’s the older
sibling.”
“Don’t I know it?”
“What did you tell him?”
“To mind his own business. That I was an adult and I could
associate with whomever I wanted.”
Rory laughs. “Listen, I know you don’t read the Saddle Peek,”
Rory says, mentioning the town’s gossip social media page. It’s still
run like an old school bulletin board style page, but it is the best and
fastest source of town information.
“No, I don’t read it. If it’s worth anything, I’ll hear about it at the
library tomorrow.” I made the mistake once of going on there, eager
for the juicy gossip of our small town and found an old thread about
the poor, sweet librarian. Never again.
 “I didn’t figure. So the hottest news tonight is that all six of the
Crawford kids have to get married or lose their ranch and some
other bigger property to our north.”
A jab of pain slices through me, but it’s ridiculous to feel sad at
the thought of Monroe Crawford getting married. I have no claim on
that man. I’m nearly a decade older than him. I have literally
nothing to offer.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because I figure you can do one of two things,” Rory says. But
then she pauses.
“Which are?”
“You can have a hot steamy hookup with him before he gets
himself hitched or you can offer to marry him yourself.”
At that I burst out laughing.
“What is so funny? Callie, I’m totally serious.”
“Me? You want me to offer to marry that … that man? Have you
seen him, Rory? Have you seen me? We do not match. He drips
sexy. I mean it oozes out of his pores for heaven’s sake. And I’m ten
years older than him. Let’s not even talk about my body.”
“What’s the matter with your body? Curvy is in, sweet thing, real
men love women with some meat on their bones.”
“I even believe that, if the curves come in a package like yours.
You’re proportionate. A perfect hourglass.”
“With more sand than is conventionally deemed acceptable.”
“Right. But my curves, if that’s what we have to call them, are
none of those things. My hips and thighs and butt are too big and
my boobs are too small for a woman my size. I haven’t even
mentioned my scars or my limp and cane.”
“Callie, I’ve seen how that man looks at you, he doesn’t seem at
all bothered by your disproportionate curves. He’s attracted to you.
What could it hurt to put yourself out there? You know, he might be
sex on legs, but he’s not perfect either. There are plenty of narrow
minded women in this town who wouldn’t touch him regardless of
how hot he is.”
“Because of his prison stint? Yes, I know.” I’m not quite able to
keep my derision from my voice as I remember Miranda Dillard’s
silliness.
But Rory must take my tone to mean something else, because
she asks, “Does it bother you?”
“Honestly? No, it doesn’t,” I say quickly. “But—okay, I’m going to
admit something here, and you can’t give me any crap about it.”
“Promise.”
“After he started coming to the library, there were whispers.
Then, of course, my brother had to call me and warn me of how
potentially dangerous he was. So I put my librarian skills to work
and researched him. I read the case file, as much of it was public, at
least. He settled. It never went to court. As best I can tell, it was
nothing more than a tragic accident, but the district attorney was
hell-bent on making an example out of him.”
“That’s crap.”
I exhale slowly. “I haven’t spent very much time with him at all,
just a handful of short conversations, but I’ve never seen even a hint
of anger or violence or anything like that. He’s so sweet with the
kids, too. He’s always there at storytime, and even though he’s
trying to get his own work done, inevitably some kid will interrupt
him, but he’s patient and sweet with them.”
“Sounds like he’d make a good father.”
Her words are like a kick to my gut and something resonates in
them.
“Did the post about the Crawfords say how much time they have
before they all have to get married?” I ask.
“Not in so many words, but it sounds like an ASAP kind of
situation. And six of them! Can you imagine? Of course, they’re all
hot so it shouldn’t be too hard,” Rory says.
“Well, why don’t you pick one?” I ask.
She snorts. “I don’t think so. I have my hands full enough with
all my animals. I mean an extra pair of hands would be helpful for
that. And the occasional orgasm that I don’t have to provide myself.”
I laugh. “TMI, crazy lady.”
“How are you still this shy at thirty-five?”
“Shut up. I’m not shy. I just don’t see the purpose of openly
discussing masturbation.”
 She clicks her tongue. “Maybe I should buy you a toy.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I could have it delivered to the library.”
“Aurora, I will murder you and bury you in your composting bin.”
She cackles. “Fair enough. I’ll keep my toys to myself.”
“Toys, plural? Oh my gosh, how many do you have?” She starts
to answer, but I stop her. “No! Never mind, I don’t actually want to
know.”
“Fine. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Always.”
“Love you, Callie-Lou-Who.”
“Love you too, Rory-Borealis.”
We hang up, and I stare at the streaming service icon bouncing
around on my TV screen and then down at my now soggy and cold
popcorn.
Like he’d make a good father.
My thoughts bop around in my head, faster than the bouncing
logo. I stand and know that if I’m going to do this, I have to do it
now, because if not, I’ll make a thousand excuses tomorrow and
maybe miss my one chance. I grab my car keys and purse, then stop
at the mirror in my dining room. I put on a little lip gloss and pinch
my cheeks and wipe under my eyes so maybe I don’t look so tired.
But you know what? He’s seen me before. It’s not like he doesn’t
know that I’m far from a beauty queen.
Before I pull out of my driveway, I check the Saddle Peek and
read up on all the posts regarding the Crawford siblings. If the
rumors are to be believed then they do need to be married, all of
them and soon.
Maybe Roe already has a girlfriend, but maybe he doesn’t. And if
he doesn’t, then I could help him with his problem and he … well, he
could finally give me what I’ve wanted for years.
 five
. . .

Monroe

“Roe! Get your ass down here; you’ve got a visitor,” Quinn yells from
the living room.
I’ve just gotten out of the shower and I’ve got a towel on my
head and one around my waist. I pull on some jeans and try to dry
my hair as best I can as I pad my way from my bedroom to the
main living area. This old house still looks the same as it did when
we were kids. It’s a sprawling two story Arts and Crafts Foursquare
that my mom’s grandparents built back in the twenties. It’s been
renovated several times over the years, as more rooms were added
on to accommodate all the kids and the appliances updated. Of
course, it’s not as clean as it was when Mama was alive, and no
house that’s almost a hundred years old has enough bathrooms, but
we get by.
Most recently, the kitchen was opened up and a living area was
added on to the back of the house. That’s where I find Quinn, sitting
in his favorite chair with a long neck dangling from two fingers. I
raise my brows to my brother.
He nods toward the front of the house. “She wanted to wait
outside on the porch.”
 “She?”
“Yup.” He grins, but doesn’t give me any more than that.
I toss my towel at him and go out the door, the screen door
slams behind me. And there’s Callie.
“Callie, hi.”
Her copper eyes eat up my naked torso, slow, slow, slow. Like
she’s a master cartographer and she’s mapping out every contour
and line. I step closer to her and that seems to break whatever spell
she was under because her eyes flick to my face and she blushes.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to show up here unannounced, but I didn’t
have your number.” Then, she adds in a rush, “And I wouldn’t have
called anyways because the truth is I knew if I didn’t do this tonight,
and do it in person, then I’d lose whatever bravado I seem to be
running on and I’d never ask.”
“Okay.” God she’s cute when she’s nervous. “Do you want
something to drink? Or we could go inside? Sit somewhere?”
“Let’s sit over there.” She points to the darkness off the porch
where I know that double swing hangs from the big oak limb.
“Yeah, sounds good,” I say.
I grab her elbow to lead her over there since it’s dark and I don’t
want her to stumble on a tree root or anything else. We sit and
swing in silence for a few minutes. The sounds of cicadas and tree
frogs serenade us and I finally understand why Mama and Daddy
came out here all the time and sat on this old swing, holding hands
and talking. It’s romantic out here.
“Callie, is everything okay? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No. It’s nothing like that. Wow, this is harder than I thought.”
She blows out a breath. “Okay, I’m just gonna rip off the proverbial
bandage. I heard through the good ol’ Saddle Creek rumor mill that
you and your siblings have to get married because of some issue
with your grandfather’s will.”
I sit back and chuckle. “Damn, word does travel fast here. I’d
forgotten about that. Yes, that’s all true.”
She turns her body to face me just as the moon peeks out from
behind some clouds and her face is illuminated. She looks so damn
beautiful, I want to write a poem or paint her face, despite the fact
that I have neither of those skills. This woman has me tied up in
knots.
A furrow appears between her brows. “Do you have a girlfriend?
Or have you already found who you’re going to marry?” she asks.
“No. I’ve been gone for a while. First the Army and then… ” I trail
off.
She licked her lips.
She makes it damned hard to concentrate. “Why do you ask?”
Her eyes squeeze shut. “I was thinking we could come to an
agreement. An arrangement or trade or whatever you want to call
it.” Those copper eyes land on my face searching. “More than
anything in the world, Roe, I want to be a mother.” Those gorgeous
eyes fill with tears as she speaks and a knot tightens my throat. “If I
married you, I mean I know there are no guarantees, and maybe
the idea of marrying me or being with me is not at all what you
want, but I thought I would offer.”
I cup her cheek just as a tear slides down. I thumb it away. “Ah,
Buttons, you don’t want to marry me.”
She tries to stand and move away from me, but I keep her in
place.
“Just a minute. Let me explain. There are things about me that
you don’t know.”
“You can just tell me no, Roe. I get it. I’m older than you and
well I’ve never been any man’s fantasy.”
“You’re my fantasy. You would turn eight different shades of red
if I told you all the filthy things I’ve thought about doing to you.”
She licks her lips and I swallow a groan.
I close my eyes and steel myself for her disgust, for when she
hears the truth about me and turns and walks away. She’ll probably
ban me from the library. Or at least from storytime.
“I’m a convicted felon, Callie. I went to prison for killing a man.”
“You went to prison for involuntary manslaughter which is a
second degree felony,” she says.
“You know?”
“Small town, Roe. Of course I know. I would love to hear the
story from your mouth because I don’t trust other people’s
interpretations though.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “I’d just gotten out of the Army, on
a medical discharge for a piece of shrapnel that is permanently
lodged in my arm. My arm twitched constantly when it first
happened and then for months after the wound healed. I can’t feel
it, but it’s there and it effectively ended my military career. I was
over in Austin visiting some buddies and we were leaving a bar. I’d
had one beer. Anyways, there was a couple arguing in the parking
lot and the guy was clearly roughing the woman up, grabbing her
arms and shaking her. So I went over and told him to let her go or
I’d call the cops. He told me to fuck off and continued to squeeze
that woman’s arms. I know she had to have had perfect impressions
of his fingerprints bruised into her skin the next day. Anyways, I
tried again; told him to let her go. He turned around and came at
me and I shoved him away. He lost his footing and fell backwards
into the concrete parking curb. Cracked his skull open and,” I shake
my head, “he never regained consciousness.”
“Didn’t the woman tell the police what happened?”
“She said I shoved her husband down and he’d had no chance
with me since I’m such a huge guy. She wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t
even five foot nine.”
“But you pled guilty to manslaughter. It was an accident.”
“Yes and yes, but the DA made it very clear that since I’d been in
special operations, I had unique skills. I was essentially a walking,
talking weapon. Add that to my size and—” I shrug.
“You didn’t deserve to go to prison for that, Roe.”
Her voice is gentle and I want to bathe in it. I want her to tell me
every day for the rest of my life that I’m forgiven, but I can’t ask
that of her.
“I killed men over there too, Buttons. They trained me to be a
killing machine.”
She shakes head. “No, they trained you to be a soldier and you
did your job. And now you’re home and it’s time to stop punishing
yourself. So if you don’t want to marry me for any other reason than
your criminal background, just be honest.”
“You would still marry me? Have a baby with me?” I ask.
 “Yes, that’s why I came out here. Besides, I think I’d be getting
the better end of the deal.”
“I don’t think so, baby.” I cup her face and do the thing I’ve want
to do since the first moment I laid eyes on her. I kiss her. I don’t
devour her; now isn’t the right time for that. I just sip at her lips
because she’s the finest of wines, so rich and delicate.
Little open mouthed nibbles across her lips and she gives them
right back to me. And I want to pull her into my lap and let her feel
how hard she gets me. I kiss her pillowy lips, so soft, so lush, then I
press my forehead to hers.
“I would love, more than anything, to marry you, Callie Burton.”
 six
. . .

Monroe

I wait until Callie’s car lights are completely gone before I go back
inside. Quinn is still sitting in the same spot.
“What was all that about? You sweet on the librarian?”
I sit on the edge of the couch and smile at my older brother. “As
a matter of fact, I am. And I’m gonna marry her.”
“That’s fast,” Quinn says.
“Didn’t you say we needed to get married?”
“Yeah, but you said no one would have you because you’re a big,
bad criminal,” he says that last bit with an annoying childish voice.
“I do not talk like that.”
“You do know that her brother is the sheriff and he’s going to shit
a monkey when he finds out you two are getting hitched?”
My lips quirk in a smile because that image is fucking hilarious.
But he’s right. “I plan to go talk to him tomorrow.”
“Think that’s wise?”
“Probably not. But I think it’s the honorable thing to do.”
He nods. “Did you see Harrison’s message in the Jolly Ranchers?”
“I did.”
“Fucking coward to drop that bomb after he’d already left town.”
 I take a deep breath. “He told me before he left so he wasn’t a
complete coward.”
“Did he tell you who he’s married to?”
“Nope.”
“Secretive fucker.”
I chuckle. “You just don’t like being the last to know things.”
He flips me off. “I’m going to hire a housekeeper. I’m tired of this
place looking like three bachelors live here. And it’s just gonna get
worse when Johnny gets home this summer.” He tilts his chin up.
“Think your girlfriend would let us post a flyer up or something at
the library?”
“Fiancee, not girlfriend. Which reminds me, I need to go buy a
ring tomorrow before I see her brother.”
“She moving into your bedroom?”
“No. She owns that old Victorian off the square. Remember
Rosie, the librarian from when we were kids? That’s her old place.
Callie is her niece.”
He nods. He’s quiet for a minute before he asks, “She going to
make you happy, brother?”
“Yeah, she is.”
“Good, you deserve it after everything you’ve endured. Just make
sure you still get your ass out here and get your work done and we
won’t have a problem. These cows can’t take care of themselves.”
He gets up to leave the room, then pauses. “Oh and Roe, when it
comes time for the fucking prenup, use Blake. I went and filled him
in on everything and he’s created a template already for each of us.
You remember where his office is?”
My stomach tightens. Blake was Quinn’s best friend and the
lawyer I used when I was arrested. He’s not a criminal attorney,
which he’d told me repeatedly, and he apologized profusely for how
things went down. But all of it was my choice. He’s a good guy. I
just don’t like remembering that whole ordeal.
“Yeah. I’ll go see him.”
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have to hide out up in that rough country and I'll pay him—forty
dollars."
"Eighty," said the Texan.
"W'y, I'm only payin' my round-up hands thirty," protested
Crittenden, weakly; "I'll give you fifty, though."
"Eighty, cash," said the cowboy. "You'll make that on the first ten
calves."
"Sixty!" pleaded Crit.
"I want my money in my hand at the end of every month," added
Pecos, and then there was a silence.
"All right," grumbled the cowman, at last, "but you understand I
expect something to show for all that money. Now I want you to go
around the corner thar like you was mad, 'n' saddle up and ride on,
like you was goin' to Upton's. Then when it comes night I want you
to ride back and camp out there by that big ironwood over against
the mesa. As soon as me and the boys are out of sight in the
mornin' my Mexican, Joe Garcia, will come out to you with some
grub and take you over to Carrizo Springs, and I want you to stay
there as long as I keep driftin' U cows in over the Peaks. Now look—
here's your job—I want you to burn every one of them Upton cows
over into a Wine-glass"—he made the figure in the sand—"and run
it on the calves. Savvy? Well, git, then, and remember what I said
about lookin' mad—I don't want my punchers to git onto this!"
 CHAPTER III
THE DOUBLE CROSS

A MONTH passed, drearily; and while Ike Crittenden and his

punchers gathered U cows on one side of the Four Peaks and
shoved them over the summit Pecos Dalhart roped them as they
came in to Carrizo Springs for water and doctored over their brands.
The boys were following in the wake of Upton's round-up and the
brands on the calves were freshly made and therefore easy to
change, but it called for all of Pecos's professional skill to alter the
cow brands to match. In order not to cause adverse comment it is
necessary that the cow and calf shall show the same mark and since
the mother's brand was always old and peeled Pecos called into
requisition a square of wet gunny-sack or blanket to help give the
antique effect. Spreading this over the old U he retraced the letter
through it with a red-hot iron and then extended the brand
downward until it formed a neat Wine-glass ( ), scalded rather than
seared into the hair. Such a brand would never look fresh or peel,
though it might grow dim with years, and after working the ear-
marks over on cow and calf the transformation was complete. But
while the results of his labor was a fine little bunch of Wine-glass
cows hanging around Carrizo Springs, to Pecos himself, tying a knot
in a buckskin string to count off each weary day, the month seemed
interminable.
There was a sound of music in the store as he rode into Verde
Crossing and he spurred forward, eager for the sight of a human
face and a chance to sit down and talk. But at the thud of hoofs and
the chink of spurs Angevine Thorne brought his song to an untimely
close and, as Pecos dismounted, Marcelina Garcia slipped out
through the door and started towards home, favoring him in passing
with a haughty stare.
"Good-morning, Mex!" he exclaimed, bowing and touching his heart
in an excess of gallantry, "fine large day, ain't it?"
"Gringo!" shrilled Marcelina, flaunting her dark hair, "Pendejo
Texano! Ahhr!" She shuddered and thrust out her tongue defiantly,
but as the "fool Texan" only laughed and clattered into the store she
paused and edged back towards the door for further observations.
"W'y, hello, Angy!" cried Pecos, racking jovially up to the bar, "how's
the champeen? Sober as a judge, hey? Well, gimme another shot of
that snake-pisen and if it don't kill me I may swear off too, jest to be
sociable! Say, what does 'pendayho' mean?" He glanced roguishly
back towards the door, where he knew Marcelina was listening, and
laughed when he got the translation.
"Dam' fool, hey? Well, I thought it was something like that—kinder
p'lite and lady-like, you know. Marcelina hung that on me as I come
in, but I called her a Mex and I'll stand by it. Where's Old Crit?"
Angevine Thorne drew himself up and regarded the cowboy with
grave displeasure.
"Mr. Crittenden is out riding," he said, "and I'll thank you not to refer
to the nativity of my friend, Miss Garcia."
"Certainly not—to be sure!" protested Pecos Dalhart. "If you will jest
kindly give me an introduction to the young lady I'll—"
"See you in hell first," broke in Angy, with asperity. "Where you been
all the time?"
"Ramblin' around, ramblin' around," answered Pecos, waving his
hand vaguely. "What's the chances for a little music and song to
while the time away? I'm lonely as a dog."
"Joe Garcia tells me he's been packin' grub out to you at Carrizo—
what you been doin' in that God-forsaken hole?"
"Yore friend Joe talks too much," observed Pecos, briefly, "and I
reckon you tell everything you know, don't you? Well and good,
then, I'll keep you out of trouble with the Boss by listenin' to what
you know already. Can you sing the 'Ranger,' or 'California Joe'? No?
Can't even sing 'Kansas,' can you? Well, it's too bad about you, but
I'm going to show you that they's another canary bird on the Verde,
and he can sure sing." With this declaration Pecos leaned back
against the bar, squared his shoulders, and in a voice which had
many a time carolled to a thousand head of cattle burst into a
boastful song.
"Ooh, I can take the wildest bronco
Of the wild and woolly West;
I can back him, I can ride him,
Let him do his level best.
I can handle any creature
Ever wore a coat of hair,
And I had a lively tussle
With a tarnal grizzly bear."

He glanced slyly towards the door, threw out his chest, and essayed
once more to attract the attention of his girl, if she was anywhere
within a mile.
"Ooh, I can rope and tie a long-horn,
Of the wildest Texas brand,
And in any disagreement,
I can play a leading hand.
I—"

A dark mass of hair shading a pair of eyes as black and inquisitive as

a chipmunk's appeared suddenly in the vacant square of the
doorway and instantly the bold cowboy stopped his song.
"Good-morning, Miss Garcia," he said, bowing low, "won't you come
in—now, Angy, do your duty or I'll beat you to death!" At this hasty
aside Angevine Thorne did the honors, though with a bad grace.
"Marcelina, this is Mr. Dalhart—you better go home now, your
mother's callin' you."
"I will not shake hands with a Texano!" pronounced Marcelina,
stepping into the open and folding her arms disdainfully.
"Come on in then and hear the music," suggested Pecos, peaceably.
"Pah! The Tehannos sing like coyotes!" cried Marcelina, twisting up
her lips in derision. "They are bad, bad men—mi madre say so. No, I
go home—and when you are gone Babe will sing sweet moosic for
me." She bowed, with a little smile for Babe, and glided through the
doorway; and though he lingered about until Old Crit came in, Pecos
Dalhart failed to catch another glimpse of this new queen of his
heart.
It was dusk when Crittenden rode into camp, and at sight of Pecos
Dalhart sitting by the fire the cowman's drawn face, pinched by
hunger and hard riding, puckered up into a knot.
"What you doin' down here?" he demanded, when he had beckoned
him to one side.
"Come down for my pay," responded the cowboy, briefly.
"Your pay," fumed Crittenden, "your pay! What do you need with
money up at Carrizo? Say, have you been gittin' many?" he
whispered, eagerly. "Have they been comin' in on you?"
"Sure thing. Branded forty-two cows, thirty calves, and sixteen twos.
But how about it—do I draw?"
"Only thirty calves! W'y, what in the world have you been doin'? I
could pick up that many mavericks on the open range. You must've
been layin' down under a tree!"
"That's right," agreed Pecos, "and talkin' to myse'f, I was that lonely.
But if you'll kindly fork over that eighty that's comin' to me we'll call
it square, all the same—I only branded about a thousand dollars'
worth of cows for you."
"Eighty dollars!" cried Old Crit. "W'y, I never agreed to nothin' like
that—I said I'd give you sixty. But I'll tell you what I'll do," he added,
quickly, "I'll make it eighty if you'll go up there for another month."
"After I git my first month's pay they will be time to discuss that,"
replied Pecos Dalhart, and after a thousand protestations the
cowman finally went down into his overalls and produced the money.
"Now what about next month?" he demanded, sharply.
"Nope," said Pecos, pocketing his eighty dollars, "too lonely—too
much trouble collectin' my pay—don't like the job."
"Give you eighty dollars," urged Crit, "that's a heap o' money for one
month."
"Nope, this'll last me a while—so long." He started toward the corral
but Crittenden caught him by the arm instantly.
"Here, wait a minute," he rasped, "what's the matter with you
anyhow? I'm ridin' early and late on my round-up and dependin' on
you to finish this job up! You ain't goin' to quit me right in the middle
of it, are you?"
"That's what," returned Pecos. "I ain't so particular about brandin' a
maverick once in a while—every cowman does that—but this idee of
stealin' from a man you never saw goes agin' me. I git to thinkin'
about it, an' it ain't right!"
"Aw, sho, sho, boy," protested Crittenden, "you don't want to mind a
little thing like that—I thought you was a man with nerve. Now here,
I can't stop to go out there now and I want to git that work finished
up—I'll give you eight-y-five dol-lars to stay another month! This
man Upton is the biggest cow-thief in the country," he went on, as
Pecos shook his head, "it ain't stealin' to rob a thief, is it?"
"Oh, ain't it?" inquired the cow-puncher, gravely, and he smiled
grimly to himself as Crittenden endeavored to set his mind at rest.
"All right then," he said, cutting short the cowman's labored
justification of cattle-rustling, "I'll go you—for a hundred."
"A hundred!" repeated Crittenden, aghast. "Well, for—all right, all
right," he cried, as Pecos moved impatiently away. "Now you pull out
of here the way you did before and I'll have Joe pack you over some
more grub. A hundred dollars," he murmured, shaking his head at
the thought, "that boy will ruin me."
Early the next morning Pecos Dalhart rode slowly up the trail that led
to Carrizo Springs and the deserted country beyond, a land where as
yet the cowmen had not extended their sway. To his left rose the
sharp granite spires of the Four Peaks, to the right gleamed the
silvery thread of the Salagua, that mighty river that flowed in from
the east; and all the country between was a jumble of cliffs and
buttes and ridges and black cañons, leading from the mountains to
the river.
"So it ain't no crime to rob a thief, hey?" he muttered, when, topping
the last ridge, he gazed down at Carrizo Springs and across at the
white-worn trail which led into the wilderness beyond. "Well, if that's
the case I might as well search out that country over there and git
busy on Old Crit. A man's a dam' fool to steal a thousand dollars'
worth of cattle and only git eighty dollars for it."
Three days later, riding by a trail that led ever to the east, Pecos
came upon a narrow valley filled with cottonwoods and wild walnuts
and echoing to the music of running water. A fine brook, flowing
down from the brushy heights of the Peaks, leaped and tumbled
over the bowlders and disappeared through a narrow cleft below,
where the two black walls drew together until they seemed almost
to block the cañon. As Pecos rode cautiously down the creek-bed he
jumped a bunch of cattle from the shade of the alders and, spurring
after them as they shambled off, he saw that they bore the familiar
U, even to the young calves. Undoubtedly they belonged to the
same bunch that he had been working on over at Carrizo Springs—
the fresh-branded calves and U cows that Crittenden was shoving
over the Peaks. Riding farther down the gulch Pecos came upon a
cave at the base of the overhanging cliff. In time past the Indians
had camped there, but the ashes of their fires were bedded and only
their crude pictures on the smoke-grimed rocks remained to tell the
tale. It was the cave of Lost Dog Cañon.
On their trip over the simple-minded José had spoken of a lost
cañon somewhere over in the mountains but Pecos had never
dreamed of finding a paradise like this. According to José the Cañon
of Perro Perdito was haunted by a spirit which was muy malo,
throwing down great rocks from the sides of the cañon and howling
like a lost dog at night, but in the broad light of noonday Pecos was
undaunted and he rode on into the tunnel-like box cañon until it
pinched down to a mere cleft. It was an eerie place, but there never
was a ghost yet that threw a track like a cow and, led on by their
familiar foot-prints among the rocks, Pecos forged ahead until he
stepped out suddenly into a new world. Behind him the pent and
overhanging walls shut out the light of day but here the sun was
shining into a deep valley where in exquisite miniature lay parks and
grassy meadows, while cathedral spires of limestone, rising from the
cañon floor, joined their mighty flanks to the rim-rock which shut the
whole space in. The glittering waters of the Salagua, far below,
marked a natural barrier to the south and as Pecos Dalhart looked at
the narrow trail which had brought him in he began instinctively to
figure on a drift fence, to close the entrance to the pocket, and
make the hidden valley a mile-wide pasture and corral. All nature
seemed conspiring to make him a cattle-rustler and this hidden
pasture, with its grass and water and the gate opening at his very
door, cast the die. Two days later he moved his camp to Lost Dog
Cañon and flew at the fence with feverish energy. Within a week he
had the box cañon barricaded from wall to wall and then, as the U
cows came down to the creek to drink, he roped them, worked over
their brands, and threw them into his new pasture. By this time, with
his tongue in his cheek, he attached a circle instead of a bar to the U
and named his new brand the Monkey-wrench ( ). If he had any
qualms as to the morality of this last act Pecos did not let them
interfere with his industry in any way. The ethics of the cattle
business will not stand too stern a scrutiny, even at this late date,
and the joke on Old Crit was so primordial in its duplicity that it
obscured the finer moral issues. Like many another cowman of those
early days Pecos Dalhart had made his start with the running iron
and with luck and judgment he might yet be a cattle king.
 CHAPTER IV
THE SHOW-DOWN

I T is a great sensation to feel that you are a prospective cattle

king, but somehow when Pecos Dalhart rode back to Verde
Crossing his accustomed gaiety had fled. There were no bows and
smiles for Marcelina, no wordy exchanges with the garrulous Babe—
there is a difference, after all, between stealing cows for eighty
dollars a month and stealing for yourself, and while a moralist might
fail to see the distinction it showed in its effect on Pecos's spirits.
"I'm goin' down to Geronimo," he grumbled, after an uneasy hour at
the store, during which he had tried in vain the cheering power of
whiskey; "you can tell Crit I'll be back to-morrow night for my time,"
and without volunteering any further information he rode down to
the river, plunged across the rocky ford and was swallowed up in the
desert. Two days later he returned, red-eyed and taciturn, and to all
Babe's inquiries he observed that the Geronimo saloons were the
worst deadfalls west of the Rio Grande, for a certainty. His mood did
not improve by waiting, and when Crittenden finally rode in after his
long day's work he demanded his money so brusquely that even that
old-timer was startled.
"Well, sho, sho, boy," he soothed, "don't git excited over nothin'! To
be sure I'll pay you your money." He went down into his overalls
with commendable promptitude, but Pecos only watched him in surly
silence. Something in his pose seemed to impress the shifty
cowman; he drew forth a roll of bills and began to count them out,
reluctantly. "Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred—there it is—now
what's all this racket about?"
"Nothin'," responded Pecos, stowing away the greenbacks, "but you
can git somebody else to finish up that job."
"Well, here," snapped the cowman, warming up a little as Dalhart
cooled down, "don't I git no accountin' for this month's work? How
many did you brand and what you quittin' for?"
"I branded sixty-seven cows, fifty-five calves, and thirty two-year-
olds," replied the cowboy, boldly, and Crittenden, not knowing in
what iron they were branded, chuckled gleefully.
"Umm," he murmured, "wall, say now, that ain't so bad. Old Upton
will make a buck-jump at the moon when he finds this out. But
lookee here, boy, I'm goin' to be driftin' cows into that country for
another month yet, and that'll be as long as we can brand and ear-
mark on account of the flies in June. Now I want to make a dicker
with you for jest one more month and I'll be generous with you—
how about a hundred and ten—that's pretty nigh four months'
wages for a cow-punch!"
"No, I've done quit!" protested Pecos, vigorously. "Steal your own
cattle! When I want to go into the rustlin' business I'll rustle for
myse'f!"
"Jest one more month," insisted Old Crit, "I'll give you a hundred
and twenty!"
The cowboy looked at him a minute and smiled sneeringly. "Well,
bein' as yore money seems to be burnin' a hole in yore pocket," he
said, "I guess I'll have to take it away from you, but I'll tell you right
now I don't approve of this cow-stealin'—it's likely to git a man into
trouble!"
"All right, all right," said Crittenden, making haste to clinch the
bargain, "a hundred and twenty, then; and they hain't nobody ever
been convicted in Geronimo County yet for stealin' cows, so you
don't need to worry none. Pull your freight, now, and I'll be over
later on to see what you've done."
As Pecos Dalhart and José Garcia rode up the Carrizo trail the next
morning driving their pack animals before them, the conversation
was chiefly between José and his mules. Pecos did not approve of
Mexicans and José did not approve of Pecos—he had been making
love to his girl, Marcelina. But about a mile out of Verde Crossing
they came across an object that was worthy of comment—an old
cow and her calf, both so curiously marked that no cowboy could
pass them unnoticed. The cow was covered from shoulder to flank
with minute red and white spots and, plastered generously across
her face, was a variegated blotch of the creamy dun color peculiar to
Chihuahua stock. The calf was like its mother, even to the dun face
and spotted neck and ears, but she, on account of her brand and
ear-marks, held the entire attention of the Texan.
"What brand you call that, Joe?" he inquired, as the old cow
contemplated them from the hillside.
"Mi fiero!" exclaimed the Mexican, proudly tapping himself on the
chest.
"Oh, it's yourn, is it?" commented Pecos. "Looks like an Injun arrer
struck by lightnin', don't it? Well, these Mexican irons are too many
for me—I see you got winders in her ears!"
"You bet," assented Joe, "that my mark, un ventano, un slash, un
anzuelo!"
"A window, a slash, and an underbit, hey—you don't figure on
anybody stealin' her, unless they cut 'er ears off, do you? How many
cows you got?"
"Oh, six—eight," answered José, pride of possession loosening up
his tongue, "this good milk cow."
"Milk cow, eh?" repeated Pecos, and then he stopped and pondered
a while. Only the day before he had recorded his Monkey-wrench
brand at Geronimo, although he did not have an honestly acquired
cow in the world—here was a chance to cover his hand. "How much
you take for cow, Joe?" he asked. "I like milk, my camp."
"You take calf too?" inquired the Mexican, shrewdly.
"Sure," said Pecos, "give you twenty dollars for the cow and ten for
the calf!" He drew a roll of bills from his pocket and began to peel
them off temptingly.
"You geev twenty-five for cow," suggested Joe, his slow wits
beginning to move at the sight of real money.
"All right," said Pecos, briskly, "I'll give you twenty-five for the cow
and five for the calf—but you have to give me bill of sale."
"Stawano," assented the Mexican, "and I vent her when we geet to
camp, too. Dam' Ol' Crit," he observed, as he pocketed the money,
"I work for heem long time—he make me take trade een store—all
time in debt!"
He threw the spotted cow and calf in with the pack animals and
when they had arrived at Carrizo Springs he roped her and, true to
his promise, ran his Indian arrow brand on her shoulder, thus
making her a living document and memorandum of sale. In the cow
country that "vent" on the shoulder is the only bill of sale required,
but Pecos drew up a formal paper giving the ear-marks and brand,
and after Joe had signed it and gone he roped Old Funny-face again
and ran a Monkey-wrench on her ribs beneath the original mark, all
of which is strictly according to law. After that he herded her close,
letting the little Monkey-wrench calf have all the milk, while he
waited expectantly for Old Crit to drop in.
At the beginning of his long month of waiting Pecos Dalhart was
watchful and conservative. He branded up all the cattle that had
drifted into Lost Dog Cañon, drove them down into his hidden
pasture and closed the breach in his drift fence—then he moved
back to Carrizo and went soberly about his work. Old Funny-face and
her spotted calf were the only Monkey-wrench cows at Carrizo
Springs and though he held a bill of sale for them Pecos was finally
compelled to drive them over the trail to his Lost Dog pasture in
order to keep them from sneaking back home to Verde Crossing and
tipping his hand prematurely to Isaac Crittenden. He was a hard
man, Old Crit, especially when his pocket-book was touched, and
Pecos looked for a gunplay when the Boss finally found him out; but
if Crittenden got wind of his duplicity in advance he might come over
with all his Texas cowboys and wipe Mr. Pecos Dalhart off the map.
So at the start he was careful, running nothing but Wine-glasses on
the U cows that still came drifting in over the mountains, but as the
days went by and his courage mounted up against the time when he
was to face Old Crit a spirit of bravado crept in on him and made
him over-bold. All he wanted now was a show-down, and he wanted
it quick—one Monkey-wrench brand would tell the story. With a
sardonic grin Pecos put his rope on a likely young maverick and
burned a Monkey-wrench on his ribs; then, in order that there
should be no mistake, he worked over the brand on a U cow and put
his iron on the calf. As the last days of the month dragged by and
the fighting spirit within him clamored for action he threw caution to
the winds, running a Monkey-wrench on every cow-brute he caught.
For weeks Pecos had watched the brow of the hill where the Verde
trail came in, and he wore his six-shooter constantly, even at his
branding, but when at last Crittenden finally rode in on him he was
so intent about his work that he almost overlooked him. Only the
fidgeting of his horse, which was holding the rope taut on a big U
cow that he had strung out, saved him from being surprised at his
task and taken at a disadvantage. One glance was enough—it was
Crit, and he was alone. Pecos stood up and looked at him as he
came slowly down the hill—then, as the cow struggled to get up, he
seized his running iron from the fire, spread a wet sack over her
brand, and burned a big Monkey-wrench through the steaming cloth.
"Hello!" hailed the cowman, spurring eagerly in on him. "Are you
catchin' many?"
"Oodles of 'em!" answered Pecos, loosening his tie-down strings and
swinging up on his horse. "Git up there, cow, and show yourse'f off
to the Boss!" He slackened the taut reata that was fastened around
her hind feet and as the old cow sprang up, shaking off the sack, the
smoking Monkey-wrench on her ribs stood out like hand-writing on
the wall.
"Wh-what's that?" gasped Crit, staring at the mark. "I thought I told
you to run a Wine-glass!"
"That's right," assented Pecos, dropping his hand to his hip, "but I
got tired of runnin' your old brand, so I studied out a little
improvement!"
He laughed hectoringly as he spoke and the realization of the fraud
that had been perpetrated upon him made Crittenden reel in the
saddle.
"Hev—hev you recorded that brand?" he demanded, tensely.
"I certainly have," responded Pecos, "and I didn't see no Wine-glass
registered before me, neither. If I'd been real foxy, like some people
I know, I would've put that in the book too and euchered you out of
the whole bunch. But I'm good-natured, Mr. Crittenden, and bein' as
I was takin' your money I branded most of these U cows in the
Wine-glass. I hope you'll be able to take this reasonable."
"Reasonable!" screamed Crittenden, "reasonable! W'y, if I wasn't the
most reasonable man on earth I'd shoot you so full of lead it'd take
a wagon to haul you to the graveyard. But you don't know who
you're up against, boy, if you think you can fool me like this—the
man don't live that can give Ike Crittenden the double cross. I been
in the business too long. Now I give you jest five minutes to make
me out a bill of sale for your entire brand, whatever you call it. Ef
you don't—"
He rose up threateningly in his stirrups and his one good eye glared
balefully, but Pecos had been expecting something like this for a
month or more and he did not weaken.
"Go ahead," he said, "my brand is the Monkey-wrench; I come by it
as honest as you come by the Wine-glass, and I'll fight for it. If you
crowd me too hard, I'll shoot; and if you try to run me out of the
country I'll give the whole snap away to Upton."
"W'y, you son of a—" began the cowman malignantly, but he did not
specify. Pecos's ever-ready pistol was out and balanced in his hand.

Pecos's ever-ready pistol was out and balanced in his hand

"That'll do, Mr. Crittenden," he said, edging his horse in closer. "I
never took that off o' nobody yet, and 'tain't likely I'll begin with you.
If you're lookin' for trouble you'll find I can accommodate you, any
time—but listen to reason, now. This ain't the first time a cowman
has got himse'f into trouble by hirin' somebody else to do his stealin'
for him—I've been around some, and I know. But they ain't no use
of us fightin' each other—we're both in the same line of business.
You leave me alone and I'll keep shut about this—is it a go?"
The fires of inextinguishable hate were burning in Old Crit's eye and
his jaw trembled as he tried to talk.
"Young man," he began, wagging a warning finger at his enemy,
"young man—" He paused and cursed to himself fervently. "How
much will you take for your brand?" he cried, trying to curb his
wrath, "and agree to quit the country?"
"I ain't that kind of a hold-up," replied Pecos, promptly. "I like this
country and I'm goin' to live here. They's two or three hundred head
of cattle running in here that I branded for you for a hundred and
eighty dollars. They're worth two or three thousand. I've got a little
bunch myself that I picked up on the side, when I wasn't stealin' for
you. Now all I ask is to be left alone, and I'll do the same by you. Is
it a go?"
The cold light of reason came into Crittenden's fiery orb and glittered
like the hard finish of an agate.
"Well," he said, grudgingly, "well—oh hell, yes!" He urged his horse
sullenly up the hill. "Another one of them smart Texicans," he
muttered, "but I'll cure him of suckin' eggs before I'm through with
'im."
 CHAPTER V
LOST DOG CAÑON

T HE silence of absolute loneliness lay upon Lost Dog Cañon like a

pall and to Pecos Dalhart, sprawling in the door of his cave, it
seemed as if mysterious voices were murmuring to each other
behind the hollow gurgling of the creek. From far down the cañon
the bawling of cows, chafing against the drift fence, echoed with
dreary persistence among the cliffs, and the deep subterranean
rumbling which gave the place its bad name broke in upon his
meditations like the stirring of some uneasy devil confined below. On
the rim of the black cañon wall that rose against him a flock of
buzzards sat in a tawdry row, preening their rusty feathers or
hopping awkwardly about in petty, ineffectual quarrels—as shabby a
set of loafers as ever basked in the sun. For a week Pecos had idled
about his cave, now building pole houses to protect his provisions
from the rats, now going out to the point to watch the Verde trail,
until the emptiness of it had maddened him. At first he had looked
for trouble—the veiled treachery of some gun-man, happening in on
him accidentally, or an armed attack from Old Crit's cowboys—but
now he would welcome the appearance of Crit himself. In action
Pecos could trust his nerves absolutely, but he chafed at delay like a
spirited horse that frets constantly at the bit. If it was to be a game
of waiting Crittenden had won already. Pecos threw away his
cigarette impatiently and hurried down the cañon to catch his horse.
"Where's Old Crit?" he demanded when, after a long ride, he stalked
defiantly into the store at Verde Crossing.
"Damfino," replied Babe, looking up from a newspaper he was
reading, "gone down to Geronimo, I guess."
"Is he lookin' for me?" inquired Pecos, guardedly.
"W'y, not so's you notice it," answered the bar-keeper, easily. "It'd be
the first case on record, I reckon, bein' as he owes you money. In
fact, until you collect your last month's pay the chances are good
that you'll be lookin' for him. Did you see the new sign over the
door?"
"No," said Pecos, "what is it?"
"Post Office!" replied Babe, proudly. "Yes, sir, Old Good Eye has
certainly knocked the persimmon this time and put Verde Crossing
on the map. They's lots of ranchers up and down the river—and you,
of course, over there at Carrizo—and Crit figured it out some time
ago that if he could git 'em to come here for their mail he'd catch
their trade in whiskey; so what does he do but apply to the Post
Office Department for a mail route from here to Geronimo and bid in
the contract himself! Has to send Joe down about once a week,
anyhow, you understand, and he might as well git the Government
to pay for it. So you can write home to your folks now to send your
mail to Verde Crossing—tell your girl too, because if we don't git ten
letters a week we lose our route."
Pecos twisted uneasily on his chair. Like many another good Texan
he was not writing home.
"Ain't got no girl," he protested, blushing beneath his tan.
"No?" said Angy, "well that's good news for Marcelina—she was
inquirin' about you the other day. But say, here's some
advertisements in this paper that might interest you. Umm—lemme
see, now—'Genuine Diamonds, rings, earrings, and brooches, dollar
forty-eight a piece, to introduce our new line.' That's pretty cheap,
ain't it! 'Always acceptable to a lady,' it says. Yes, if you don't want
'em yourself you can give 'em away, see? You know, I'm tryin' to git
the fellers around here interested, so's they'll write more letters."
He threw this out for a feeler and Pecos responded nobly. "Well, go
ahead and order me them rings and earrings," he said, "I'm no
cheap sport. What else you got that's good?"
Angevine Thorne dropped his paper and reached stealthily for a
large mail-order catalogue on the counter. "Aprons, bath-tubs,
curtains, dishes," he read, running his finger down the index. "Here's
some silk handkerchiefs that might suit you; 'green, red, blue, and
yaller, sixty cents each; with embroidered initials, twenty cents
extra.'"
"I'll go you!" cried the cowboy, looking over his shoulder. "Gimme
half a dozen of them red ones—no squaw colors for me—and say,
lemme look at them aprons."
"Aprons!" yelled Angy. "Well—what—the—"
"Aw, shut up!" snarled Pecos, blushing furiously. "Can't you take a
joke? Here, gimme that catalogue—you ain't the only man on the
Verde that can read and write—I've had some schoolin' myself!"
He retired to a dark corner with the "poor man's enemy" and pored
over it laboriously, scrawling from time to time upon an order blank
which Angy had thoughtfully provided. At last the deed was done, all
but adding up the total, and after an abortive try or two the cowboy
slipped in a twenty-dollar bill and wrote: "Giv me the rest in blue
hankerchefs branded M." Then he sealed and directed the letter and
called on Babe for a drink.
"How long before I'll git them things?" he inquired, his mind still
heated with visions of aprons, jewelry, and blue handkerchiefs,
branded M,—"two or three weeks? Well, I'll be down before then—
they might come sooner. Where's all the punchers?"
"Oh, they're down in Geronimo, gettin' drunk. Round-up's over, now,
and Crit laid 'em off. Gittin' kinder lonely around here."
"Lonely!" echoed Pecos. "Well, if you call this lonely you ought to be
out in Lost Dog Cañon, where I am. They's nothin' stirrin' there but
the turkey-buzzards—I'm gittin' the willies already, jest from listenin'
to myself think. Say, come on out and see me sometime, can't you?"
"Nope," said Babe, "if you knew all the things that Crit expects me to
do in a day you'd wonder how I git time to shave. But say, what you
doin' out there, if it's a fair question?"
"Who—me? Oh, I've made me a little camp over in that cave and I'm
catchin' them wild cattle that ooze along the creek." He tried to
make it as matter-of-fact as possible, but Angevine Thorne knew
better.
"Yes, I've heard of them wild cows," he drawled, slowly closing one
eye, "the boys've been driftin' 'em over the Peaks for two months.
Funny how they was all born with a U on the ribs, ain't it?"
"Sure, but they's always some things you can't explain in a cow
country," observed Pecos, philosophically. "Did Crit tell you anything
about his new iron? No? Called the Wine-glass—in the brand book
by this time, I reckon."
"Aha! I see—I see!" nodded Angy. "Well, Old Good Eye wants to go
easy on this moonlightin'—we've got a new sheriff down here in
Geronimo now—Boone Morgan—and he was elected to put the fear
of God into the hearts of these cowmen and make 'em respect the
law. W'y, Crit won't even pay his taxes, he's that ornery. When the
Geronimo tax-collector shows up he says his cows all run over in
Tonto County; and when the Tonto man finally made a long trip
down here Crit told him his cows all ran in Geronimo County, all but
a hundred head or so, and John Upton had stole them. The tax-
collectors have practically give up tryin' to do anything up here in the
mountains—the mileage of the assessor and collector eats up all the
profits to the county, and it's easier to turn these cowmen loose than
it is to follow 'em up. This here Geronimo man jumped all over Crit
last time he was up here, but Crit just laughed at him. 'Well,' he
says, 'if you don't like the figgers I give, you better go out on the
range and count them cows yourself, you're so smart.' And what
could the poor man do? It'd cost more to round up Old Crit's cattle
than the taxes would come to in a lifetime. But you want to look out,
boy," continued Angy earnestly, "how you monkey around with them
U cattle—Boone Morgan is an old-timer in these parts and he's likely
to come over the hill some day and catch you in the act."
"Old Crit says they never was a man sent up in this county yet for
stealin' cattle," ventured Pecos, lamely.
"Sure not," assented Angevine Thorne, "but they's been a whole lot
of 'em killed for it! I don't suppose he mentioned that. Have you
heard about this Tewkesbury-Graham war that's goin' on up in
Pleasant Valley? That all started over rustlin' cattle, and they's over
sixty men killed already and everybody hidin' out like thieves. A
couple of Crit's bad punchers came down through there from the
Hash-knife and they said it was too crude for them—everybody
fightin' from ambush and killin' men, women, and children. I tell you,
it's got the country stirred up turrible—that's how come Boone
Morgan was elected sheriff. The people down in Geronimo figured
out if they didn't stop this stealin' and rustlin' and alterin' brands
pretty soon, Old Crit and Upton would lock horns—or some of these
other cowmen up here in the mountains—and the county would go
bankrupt like Tonto is, with sheriff's fees and murder trials. No, sir,
they ain't been enough law up here on the Verde to intimidate a
jackrabbit so far—it's all down there in Geronimo, where they give
me that life sentence for conspicuous drunkenness—but you want to
keep your ear to the ground, boy, because you're goin' to hear
something drap!"
"What d'ye think's goin' to happen, Babe?" asked the cowboy,
uneasily. "Old Crit can't be scared very bad—he's laid off all his
punchers."
"Huh! you don't know Crit as well as I do," commented Babe. "Don't
you know those punchers would've quit anyhow, as soon as they got
their pay? He does that every year —lays 'em off and then goes
down to Geronimo about the time they're broke, and half of 'em in
jail, mebby, and bails 'em out. He'll have four or five of 'em around
here all summer, workin' for nothin' until the fall round-up comes off.
I tell you, that man'll skin a flea anytime for the hide and taller. You
want to keep out of debt to him or he'll make you into a Mexican
peon, like Joe Garcia over here. Joe's been his corral boss and
teamster for four years now and I guess they's a hundred dollars
against him on the books, right now. Will drink a little whiskey once
in a while, you know, like all the rest of us, and the Señora keeps
sendin' over for sugar and coffee and grub, and somehow or other,
Joe is always payin' for a dead horse. Wouldn't be a Mexican,
though," observed Babe, philosophically, "if he wasn't in debt to the
store. A Mexican ain't happy until he's in the hole a hundred or so—
then he can lay back and sojer on his job and the boss is afraid to
fire 'im. There's no use of his havin' anything, anyhow—his relatives
would eat 'im out of house and home in a minute. There was a
Mexican down the river here won the grand prize in a lottery and his
relatives come overland from as far as Sonora to help him spend the
money. Inside of a month he was drivin' a wood-wagon again in
order to git up a little grub. He was a big man while it lasted—open
house day and night, fiestas and bailes and a string band to
accompany him wherever he went—but when it was all over old
Juan couldn't buy a pint of whiskey on credit if he was snake-bit.
They're a great people, for sure."
"That's right," assented Pecos, absently, "but say, I reckon I'll be
goin'." The social qualities of the Spanish-Americans did not interest
him just then—he was thinking about Boone Morgan. "Gimme a
dollar's worth of smoking tobacco and a box of forty-fives and I'll hit
the road."
"There's one thing more you forgot," suggested Angevine Thorne, as
he wrapped up the purchases.
"What—Marcelina?" ventured Pecos, faintly.
"Naw—your mail!" cried Angy, scornfully, and dipping down into a
cracker box he brought out a paper on the yellow wrapper of which
was printed "Pecos Dalhart, Verde Crossing, Ariz."
"I never subscribed for no paper!" protested Pecos, turning it over
suspiciously. "Here—I don't want it."
"Ump-umm," grunted Angy, smiling mysteriously, "take it along. All
the boys git one. You can read it out in camp. Well, if you're goin' to
be bull-headed about it I'll tell you. Crit subscribed for it for every
man in Verde—only cost two-bits a year. Got to build up this mail
route somehow, you know. It's called the Voice of Reason and it's
against the capitalistic classes."
"The which?" inquired Pecos, patiently.
"Aw, against rich fellers—these sharks like Old Crit that's crushin' the
life outer the common people. That's the paper I was showin' you—
where they was advertisin' diamonds for a dollar forty-eight a piece."
"Oh," said Pecos, thrusting it into his chaps, "why didn't you say so
before? Sure, I'll read it!"
 CHAPTER VI
"THE VOICE OF REASON"

T HE fierce heat of summer fell suddenly upon Lost Dog Cañon

and all the Verde country—the prolonged heat which hatches
flies by the million and puts an end to ear-marking and branding.
Until the cool weather of October laid them and made it possible to
heal a wound there was nothing for Pecos to do but doctor a few
sore ears and read the Voice of Reason. Although he had spent most
of his life in the saddle the school-teacher back on the Pecos had
managed to corral him long enough to beat the three R's into him
and, being still young, he had not yet had time to forget them. Only
twenty summers had passed over his head, so far, and he was a
man only in stature and the hard experience of his craft. He was a
good Texan—born a Democrat and taught to love whiskey and hate
Mexicans—but so far his mind was guiltless of social theory. That
there was something in the world that kept a poor man down he
knew, vaguely; but never, until the Voice of Reason brought it to his
attention, had he heard of the conspiracy of wealth or the crime of
government. Not until, sprawling at the door of his cave, he
mumbled over the full-mouthed invective of that periodical had he
realized what a poor, puny creature a wage-slave really was, and
when he read of the legalized robbery which went on under the
name of law his young blood boiled in revolt. The suppression of
strikes by Pinkertons, the calling out of the State Militia to shoot
down citizens, the blacklisting of miners, and the general oppression
of workingmen was all far away and academic to him—the thing that
gripped and held him was an article on the fee system, under which
officers of the law arrest all transient citizens who are unfortunate
enough to be poor, and judges condemn them in order to gain a fee.
"Think, Slave, Think!" it began. "You may be the next innocent man
to be thrown into some vile and vermin-infested county-jail to swell
the income of the bloated minions who fatten upon the misery of the
poor!"
Pecos had no difficulty in thinking. Like many another man of
wandering habits he had already tasted the bitterness of "ten dollars
or ten days." The hyenas of the law had gathered him in while he
was innocently walking down the railroad track and a low-browed
justice of the peace without asking any useless questions had
sentenced him to jail for vagrancy. Ten days of brooding and hard
fare had not sweetened his disposition any and he had stepped free
with the firm determination to wreak a notable revenge, but as the
sheriff thoughtfully kept his six-shooter Pecos had been compelled to
postpone that exposition of popular justice. Nevertheless the details
of his wrongs were still fresh in his mind, and when he learned from
the Voice of Reason that the constable and judge had made him all
that trouble for an aggregate fee of six dollars Pecos was ready to
oppose all law, in whatsoever form it might appear, with summary
violence. And as for the capitalistic classes—well, Pecos determined
to collect his last month's pay from Old Crit if he had to take it out of
his hide.
When next he rode into Verde Crossing the hang-dog look which had
possessed Pecos Dalhart since he turned rustler was displaced by a
purposeful frown. He rolled truculently in the saddle as he came
down the middle of the road, and wasted no time with preliminaries.
"Where's that blankety-blank Old Crit?" he demanded, racking into
the store with his hand on his hip.
"Gone down to Geronimo to git the mail," replied Babe, promptly.
"Well, you tell him I want my pay!" thundered Pecos, pacing up and
down.
"He'll be back to-night, better stay and tell him yourself," suggested
Babe, mildly.
"I'll do that," responded Pecos, nodding ominously. "And more'n that
—I'll collect it. What's doin'?"
"Oh, nothin'," replied Babe. "There was a deputy assessor up here
the other day and he left this blank for you to fill out. It gives the
number of your cattle."
"Well, you tell that deputy to go to hell, will you?"
"Nope," said Babe, "he might take me with him. It happens he's a
deputy sheriff, too!"
"Deputy,—huh!" grumbled Pecos, morosely. "They all look the same
to me. Did Crit fill out his blank?"
"Sure did. Reported a hundred head of Wine-glasses. Now what d'ye
think of that?"
Pecos paused and meditated on the matter for an instant. It was
doubtful if Crittenden could gather more than a hundred head of
Wine-glasses, all told. Some of them had drifted back to their old
range and the rest were scattered in a rough country. "Looks like
that deputy threw a scare into him," he observed, dubiously. "What
did he say about my cattle?"
"Well, he said you'd registered a new brand and now it was up to
you to show that you had some cattle. If you've got 'em you ought
to pay taxes on 'em and if you haven't got any you got no business
with an iron that will burn over Upton's U."
"Oh, that's the racket, is it? Well, you tell that deputy that I've got
cattle in that brand and I've got a bill of sale for 'em, all regular, but
I've yet to see the deputy sheriff that can collect taxes off of me.
D'ye think I'm goin' to chip in to help pay the salary of a man that
makes a business of rollin' drunks and throwin' honest workingmen
into the hoosegatho when he's in town? Ump-um—guess again!"
He motioned for a drink and Babe regarded him curiously as he set
out the bottle.
"You been readin' the Voice, I reckon," he said, absent-mindedly
pouring out a drink for himself. "Well, say, did you read that article
on the fee system? It's all true, Pardner, every word of it, and more!
I'm a man of good family and education—I was brought up right and
my folks are respectable people—and yet every time I go to
Geronimo they throw me into jail. Two-twenty-five, that's what they
do it for—and there I have to lay, half the time with some yegg or
lousy gang of hobos, until they git ready to turn me loose. And they
call that justice! Pecos, I'm going back to Geronimo—I'm going to
stand on the corner, just the way I used to when I was drunk, and
tell the people it's all wrong! You're a good man, Pecos—Cumrad—
will you go with me?"
Pecos stood and looked at him, wondering. "Comrade" sounded
good to him; it was the word they used in the Voice of Reason
—"Comrade Jones has just sent us in four more subscriptions. That's
what throws a crook into the tail of monopoly. Bully for you,
Comrade!" But with all his fervor he did not fail to notice the droop
to Angy's eyes, the flush on his cheeks, and the slack tremulousness
of his lips—in spite of his solemn resolutions Angy had undoubtedly
given way to the Demon Drink.
"Nope," he said, "I like you, Angy, but they'd throw us both in. You'd
better stay up here and watch me put it on Crit. 'Don't rope a bigger
bull than you can throw,' is my motto, and Old Crit is jest my size.
I'm goin' to comb his hair with a six-shooter or I'll have my money—
and then if that dog-robber of a deputy sheriff shows up I'll—well,
he'd better not crowd me, that's all. Here's to the revolution—will
you drink it, old Red-eye?"
Angy drank it, and another to keep it company.
"Pecos," he said, his voice tremulous with emotion, "when I think
how my life has been ruined by these hirelings of the law, when I
think of the precious days I have wasted in the confinement of the
Geronimo jail, I could rise up and destroy them, these fiends in
human form and their accursed jails; I could wreck every prison in
the land and proclaim liberty from the street-corners—whoop!" He
waved one hand above his head, laughed, and leapt to a seat upon
the bar. "But don't you imagine f'r a moment, my friend," he
continued, with the impressive gravity of an orator, "that they have
escaped unscathed. It was not until I had read that wonderful
champion of the common people, the Voice of Reason, that I
realized the enormity of this conspiracy which has reduced me to my
present condition, but from my first incarceration in the Geronimo
jail I have been a Thorne in their side, as the Geronimo Blade well
said. I remember as if it were yesterday the time when they erected
their first prison, over twenty years ago, on account of losing some
hoss-thieves. It was a new structure, strongly built of adobe bricks,
and in a spirit of jest the town marshal arrested me and locked me
up to see if it was tight. That night when all was still I wrenched one
of the iron bars loose and dug my way to freedom! But what is
freedom to revenge? After I had escaped I packed wood in through
the same hole, piled it up against the door, and set the dam' hell-
hole afire!"
He paused and gazed upon Pecos with drunken triumph. "That's the
kind of an hombre I am," he said. "But what is one determined man
against a thousand? When the citizens of Geronimo beheld their new
calaboose ruined and in flames they went over the country with a
fine-tooth comb and never let up until they had brought me back
and shackled me to the old Cottonwood log down by the canal—the
one they had always used before they lost the hoss-thieves. That
was the only jail they had left, now that the calaboose was burned.
In vain I pleaded with them for just one drink—they were inexorable,
the cowardly curs, and there they left me, chained like a beast, while
they went up town and swilled whiskey until far into the night. As
the first faint light of morning shot across the desert I awoke with a
terrible thirst. My suffering was awful. I filled my mouth with the vile
ditch-water and spat it out again, unsatisfied—I shook my chains
and howled for mercy. But what mercy could one expect from such a
pack of curs? I tested every link in my chain, and the bolt that
passed through the log—then, with the strength of desperation I laid
hold upon that enormous tree-trunk and rolled it into the water! Yes,
sir, I rolled the old jail-log into the canal and jumped straddle of it
like a conqueror, and whatever happened after that I knew I had the
laugh on old Hickey, the Town Marshal, unless some one saw me
sailing by. But luck was with me, boy; I floated that big log clean
through town and down to Old Manuel's road-house—a Mexican
deadfall out on the edge of the desert—and swapped it for two
drinks of mescal that would simply make you scream! By Joe, that
liquor tasted good—have one with me now!"
They drank once more, still pledging the revolution, and then Angy
went ahead on his talking jag. "Maybe you've heard of this Baron
Mun-chawson, the German character that was such a dam' liar and
jail-breaker the king made a prison to order and walled him in? Well,
sir, Mun-chawson worked seven years with a single nail on that
prison and dug out in spite of hell. But human nature's the same,
wherever you go—always stern and pitiless. When those Geronimo
citizens found out that old Angy had stole their cottonwood log and
traded it to a wood-chopper for the drinks, they went ahead and
built a double-decked, steel-celled county jail and sentenced me to it
for life! Conspicuous drunkenness was the charge—and grand
larceny of a jail—but answer me, my friend, is this a free country or
is the spirit that animated our forefathers dead? Is the spirit of
Patrick Henry when he cried, 'Give me liberty or give me death,'
buried in the oblivion of the past? Tell me that, now!"
"Don't know," responded Pecos, lightly, "too deep a question for me
—but say, gimme one more drink and then I'm goin' down the road
to collect my pay from Crit. I'm a man of action—that's where I
shine—I refer all such matters to Judge Colt." He slapped his gun
affectionately and clanked resolutely out of the door. Half a mile
down the river he sighted his quarry and rode in on him warily. Old
Crit was alone, driving a discouraged team of Mexican horses, and
as the bouquet of Pecos's breath drifted in to him over the front
wheel the Boss of Verde Crossing regretted for once the fiery quality
of his whiskey.
"I come down to collect my pay," observed Pecos, plucking nervously
at his gun.
"Well, you don't collect a cent off of me," replied Crit, defiantly, "a
man that will steal the way you did! Whenever you git ready to leave
this country I might give you a hundred or so for your brand, but
you better hurry up. There was a deputy sheriff up here the other
day, lookin' for you!"
"Yes, I heard about it," sneered Pecos. "I reckon he was lookin' for
evidence about this here Wine-glass iron."
A smothered curse escaped the lips of Isaac Crittenden, but, being
old at the game, he understood. There was nothing for it but to pay
up—and wait.
"Well, what guarantee do I git that you don't give the whole snap
away anyhow?" he demanded, fiercely. "What's the use of me payin'
you anything—I might as well keep it to hire a lawyer."
"As long as you pay me what you owe me," said Pecos, slowly, "and
treat me square," he added, "I keep my mouth shut. But the minute
you git foxy or try some ranikaboo play like sayin' the deputy was
after me—look out! Now they was a matter of a hundred and twenty
dollars between us—do I git it or don't I?"
"You git it," grumbled Crittenden, reluctantly. "But say, I want you to
keep away from Verde Crossing. Some of them Wine-glass cows
have drifted back onto the upper range and John Upton has made a
roar. More than that, Boone Morgan has undertook to collect our
taxes up here and if that deputy of his ever gits hold of you he's
goin' to ask some mighty p'inted questions. So you better stay away,
see?"
He counted out the money and held it in his hand, waiting for
consent, but Pecos only laughed.
"Life's too short to be hidin' out from a deputy," he answered,
shortly. "So gimme that money and I'll be on my way." He leaned
over and plucked the bills from Crit's hand; then, spurring back
toward the Crossing he left Old Crit, speechless with rage, to follow
in his dust.
A loud war-whoop from the store and the high-voiced ranting of
Babe made it plain to Crit that there was no use going there—Angy
was launched on one of his periodicals and Pecos was keeping him
company—which being the case there was nothing for it but to let
them take the town. The grizzled Boss of Verde stood by the corral
for a minute, listening to the riot and studying on where to put in his
time; then a slow smile crept over his hardened visage and he fixed
his sinister eye on the adobe of Joe Garcia. All was fair, with him, in
love or war, and Marcelina was growing up to be a woman.
"Joe," he said, turning upon his corral boss, "you tell your wife I'll be
over there in a minute for supper—and say, I want you to stay in the
store to-night; them crazy fools will set the house afire."
"Stawano," mumbled José, but as he turned away there was an
angry glint in his downcast eye and he cursed with every breath. It
is not always pleasant, even to a Mexican, to be in debt to the Boss.
 CHAPTER VII
THE REVOLUTION

T HE coyotes who from their seven hills along the Verde were
accustomed to make Rome howl found themselves outclassed
and left to a thinking part on the night that Pecos Dalhart and
Angevine Thorne celebrated the dawn of Reason. The French
Revolution being on a larger scale, and, above all, successful, has
come down in history as a great social movement; all that can be
said of the revolution at Verde Crossing is packed away in those sad
words: it failed. It started, like most revolutions, with a careless
word, hot from the vitriolic pen of some space-writer gone mad, and
ended in that amiable disorder which, for lack of a better word, we
call anarchy. Whiskey was at the bottom of it, of course, and it
meant no more than a tale told by an idiot, "full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing." At the same time, it managed by degrees to
engross the entire attention of Verde Crossing and after the fall of
the Bastile, as symbolized by the cracking of a bottle, it left Pecos
and Babe more convinced than ever that the world was arrayed
against them.
In the early part of the evening, according to orders, José Garcia
watched them furtively through the open door, returning at intervals,
however, to peer through the window of his own home. At each visit
it seemed to him that Angy was getting drunker and the Boss more
shameless in his attentions to Marcelina. At last, when he could
stand the strain no longer, he threw in with the merry roisterers,
leaving it to the Señora to protect the dignity of their home. A drink
or two mellowed him to their propaganda—at the mention of Crit he
burst into a torrent of curses and as the night wore on he declared
for the revolution, looking for his immediate revenge in drinking up
all the Boss's whiskey. In the end their revelry rose to such a height
that Crittenden was drawn away from his rough wooing and finally,
under the pretence of delivering the United States mail, he walked
boldly in upon them, determined to protect his property at any risk.
The penalty for interfering with the United States mail, as everybody
who has ever read the card on a drop-box knows, is a fine of
$1,000, or imprisonment, or both. In defence of that precious packet
Crittenden could have killed all three of them and stood justified
before the law, but although he had a reputation as a bad man to
crowd into a corner, Old Crit was not of a sanguinary disposition. No
man could hold down a bunch of gun-men of the kind that he
employed in his predatory round-ups and not have a little iron in his
blood, but the Boss of Verde Crossing had seen all too well in his
variegated career the evils which cluster like flies about an act of
violence, and he was always for peace—peace and his price.
"Here; here, here," he expostulated, as he found Angy in the act of
drinking half a pint of whiskey by measure, "you boys are hittin' it
pretty high, ain't ye?"
"The roof's the limit," replied Babe, facetiously. "As the Champeen
Booze-fighter of Arizona I am engaged in demonstratin' to all
beholders my claim to that illustrious title. Half a pint of whiskey—
enough to kill an Injun or pickle a Gila-monster—and all tossed off at
a single bout, like the nectar of the gods. Here's to the revolution,
and to hell with the oppressors of the poor!"
"That's right," chimed in Pecos, elevating his glass and peering
savagely over its rim at the Boss, "we done declared a feud against
the capitulistic classes and the monneypullistic tendencies of the
times. Your game's played out, Old Man; the common people have
riz in their might and took the town! Now you go away back in the
corner, d'ye understand, and sit down—and don't let me hear a word
out of you or I'll beat the fear o' God into you with this!" He hauled
out his heavy six-shooter and made the sinister motions of striking a
man over the head with it, but Crit chose to ignore the threat.
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