Rimrock Jones   By: Dane Coolidge (1873-1940)

RIMROCK JONES

BY

DANE COOLIDGE

AUTHOR OF

THE DESERT TRAIL

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

GEORGE W. GAGE

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY

W. J. WATT & COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE MAN WITH A GUN II. WHEN RICHES FLY III. MISS FORTUNE IV. AS A LOAN V. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN VI. RIMROCK PASSES VII. BUT COMES BACK FOR MORE VIII. A FLIER IN STOCKS IX. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND X. THE FIGHT FOR THE OLD JUAN XI. A LITTLE TROUBLE XII. RIMROCK'S BIG DAY XIII. THE MORNING AFTER XIV. RIMROCK EXPLAINS XV. A GAME FOR BIG STAKES XVI. THE TIGER LADY XVII. AN AFTERTHOUGHT XVIII. NEW YORK XIX. WHERE ALL MEN MEET XX. A LETTER FROM THE SECRETARY XXI. THE SECOND ANNUAL MEETING XXII. A FOOL XXIII. SOLD OUT XXIV. THE NEW YEAR XXV. AN ACCOUNTING XXVI. A CHAPTER OF HATE XXVII. THE SHOW DOWN XXVIII. A GIFT XXIX. RIMROCK DOES IT HIMSELF

ILLUSTRATIONS

And as he passed, he looked in under the shadow of his hat, and touched a bag that was tied behind his saddle . . . Frontispiece

Rimrock Jones left town with four burro loads of powder, some provisions and a cargo of tools

That was Rimrock's notice, but now it was void for the hour was long after twelve

RIM ROCK JONES

CHAPTER I.

THE MAN WITH A GUN

The peace of midday lay upon Gunsight, broken only by the distant chang, chang of bells as a ten mule ore team came toiling in from the mines. In the cool depths of the umbrella tree in front of the Company's office a Mexican ground dove crooned endlessly his ancient song of love, but Gunsight took no notice. Its thoughts were not of love but of money.

The dusty team of mules passed down the street, dragging their double trees reluctantly, and took their cursing meekly as they made the turn at the tracks. A switch engine bumped along the sidings, snaking ore cars down to the bins and bunting them up to the chutes, but except for its bangings and clamor the town was still. An aged Mexican, armed with a long bunch of willow brush, swept idly at the sprinkled street and Old Hassayamp Hicks, the proprietor of the Alamo Saloon, leaned back in his rawhide chair and watched him with good natured contempt.

The town was dead, after a manner of speaking, and yet it was not dead. In the Gunsight Hotel where the officials of the Company left their women folks to idle and fret and gossip, there was a restless flash of white from the upper veranda; and in the office below Andrew McBain, the aggressive President of the Gunsight Mining and Developing Company, paced nervously to and fro as he dictated letters to a typist. He paused, and as the clacking stopped a woman who had been reading a novel on the veranda rose up noiselessly and listened over the railing. The new typist was really quite deaf one could hear every word that was said. She was pretty, too, and well, she dressed too well, for one thing.