Mavericks   By: William MacLeod Raine (1871-1954)

MAVERICKS

BY

WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

AUTHOR OF

WYOMING, RIDGWAY OF MONTANA, BUCKY O'CONNOR, A TEXAS RANGER, ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

CLARENCE ROWE

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

1911 STREET & SMITH

1912 G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

TO MY MOTHER

"In vain men tell us time can alter Old loves, or make old memories falter."

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. PHYLLIS 9

II. THE NESTER 18

III. CAUGHT RED HANDED 28

IV. "I'M A RUSTLER AND A THIEF, AM I?" 43

V. AN AIDER AND ABETTOR 53

VI. A GOOD FRIEND 76

VII. A SHOT FROM AMBUSH 84

VIII. MISS GOING ON EIGHTEEN 103

IX. PUNISHMENT 117

X. INTO THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 126

XI. TOM DIXON 144

XII. THE ESCAPE 157

XIII. A MISTAKE 168

XIV. A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 183

XV. THE BRAND BLOTTER 200

XVI. A WATERSPOUT 214

XVII. THE HOLD UP 226

XVIII. BRILL HEALY AIRS HIS SENTIMENTS 233

XIX. THE ROAN WITH THE WHITE STOCKINGS 241

XX. YEAGER RIDES TO NOCHES 253

XXI. BREAKING DOWN AN ALIBI 263

XXII. SURRENDER 276

XXIII. AT THE RODEO 289

XXIV. MISSING 296

XXV. LARRY TELLS A BEAR STORY 304

XXVI. THE MAN HUNT 323

XXVII. THE ROUND UP 329

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE

The rider slewed in the saddle with his whole attention upon possible pursuit. Frontispiece 33

She drew back as if he had struck her, all the sparkling eagerness driven from her face. 110

"Drop that gun!" 205

They grappled in silence save for the heavy panting that evidenced the tension of their efforts. 340

MAVERICKS

CHAPTER I

PHYLLIS

Phyllis leaned against the door jamb and looked down the long road which wound up from the valley and lost itself now and again in the land waves. Miles away she could see a little cloud of dust travelling behind the microscopic stage, which moved toward her almost as imperceptibly as the minute hand of a clock. A bronco was descending the hill trail from the Flagstaff mine, and its rider announced his coming with song in a voice young and glad.

"My love has breath o' roses, O' roses, o' roses, And cheeks like summer posies All fresh with morning dew,"

floated the words to her across the sunlit open.

If the girl heard, she heeded not. One might have guessed her a sullen, silent lass, and would have done her less than justice. For the storm in her eyes and the curl of the lip were born of a mood and not of habit. They had to do with the gay vocalist who drew his horse up in front of her and relaxed into the easy droop of the experienced rider at rest.

"Don't see me, do you?" he asked, smiling.

Her dark, level gaze came round and met his sunniness without response.

"Yes, I see you, Tom Dixon."

"And you don't think you see much then?" he suggested lightly.

She gave him no other answer than the one he found in the rigor of her straight figure and the flash of her dark eyes.