Powder law

Skirting the border of the Bad Lands came two mounted men, leading a pack-horse. The man in the lead, riding a tall gray horse, drew rein at the top of a small butte. He removed his sombrero and wiped the perspiration from his brow, with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Blaze” Carlin was a striking figure of a man, as he sat his horse with the ease attained by none except men who live their lives atop a horse. His hair was long and as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, except for a strip, at least two inches wide of snow-white hair, which began at the center of his forehead and ended at the crown of his head. From this peculiarity he received his nickname.

His forehead was broad, his cheek-bones prominent, and a generous mouth smiled from beneath a high-arched nose. He was as bronzed as a savage. In fact, at first glance, one would have called him a Sioux, but there was a hint of Celtic blood in his upper lip and mouth, and his eyes, a slaty-gray, did not fit the rest of his features nor coloring. It was as if an artist had used a Sioux model; painting in an Irish smile and blue-gray eyes and finished it off by drawing a full brush of white through the center of the hair.

The other man was small and wiry, bearded to the eyes, which were as black and luminous as jet beads. His nose was hooked, like the beak of an eagle. While Blaze Carlin was dressed in the height of cowboy fashion, this little man, “Frenchy” Ditteau, wore an old, half-fringed buckskin shirt, plaid, blanket pants and short boots. Across the fork of their saddles, both men carried Sharp’s rifles.

Frenchy Ditteau rode up beside Blaze, took out a plug of tobacco and a heavy clasp-knife and began to cut a pipeful of tobacco.

“Bimeby we strike de town, eh, Blaze?”

Blaze Carlin nodded, but continued to stare ahead. He brushed his hand across his eyes and turned his head.

“I reckon so, Frenchy. This heat kinda makes things look queer and this danged country makes yuh see things what ain’t; but I thought I seen seven men riding toward the sun. Maybe they was buffalo, but I don’t think so.”

“You got de good eye,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m mak’ de bet that she’s not be de buffalo.”

Blaze smiled at his companion. He had first met little Frenchy Ditteau in a saloon near Deadwood; a saloon filled with powder-smoke and struggling men. He had seen Frenchy empty his pistol and then fling himself headlong into the muzzles of spouting pistols, slashing with his knife and yelling like a Comanche.

The odds were sadly against Frenchy; therefore Blaze accepted part of the battle. Frenchy had been scored in several places, but Blaze managed to get him to the hitch-rack, where they got mounted and rode out of the town.

“Where yuh headed for?” Blaze had asked.

“Some place,” said Frenchy vaguely. “I’m t’ink dis town she’s not be friend to me and you, pardnair. Where you go?”

“Some place,” grinned Blaze and they galloped out of town, headed north.

Blaze Carlin was a gambler, but an honest one. He had no visions of making a big stake. Gambling to Blaze was an obsession rather than a profession. He knew the cattle business, knew that his riding and roping ability would earn him a job in any cow-country. Money meant nothing to him except a chance to pit his judgment against other men.

He had ridden away with Frenchy Ditteau for the simple reason that he knew the town would be against him for his part in the battle and partly because he admired the heart of a man who would pit his knife against pistols. He did not ask Frenchy the reasons for the fight, because it was none of his affair, and Frenchy did not explain. It was merely an incident. Frenchy was utterly indifferent as to his destination. Blaze suggested Medora.

“Ba gosh, dat’s de place!” declared Frenchy.

“How about headin’ up into Montana where the new railroad is comin’ through?” asked Blaze.

“We go dere sure!” exclaimed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to see de railroad.”

Blaze laughed.

“Ain’t you got no choice, Frenchy?”

“To go wit’ you,” grinned Frenchy and the partnership pact was sealed.

For miles they had skirted the Bad Lands, seeking to strike into the big cattle-ranges, but as yet they had found no signs of human habitation. Frenchy lighted his pipe and they rode on. About half a mile farther on they came to a brushy coulée, and partly hid away in the brush they could see the half-log, half-mud cabin of a squatter.

“Hittin’ closer to civilization,” observed Blaze pointing at the cabin.

Frenchy drew slowly at his unlighted pipe, his eyes squinted in a steady focus on some object.

“What do yuh see?” asked Blaze.

Frenchy did not reply, but spurred his horse down the edge of the coulée. Blaze, after another look, followed him, driving the pack-horse ahead of him. A trail, hammered hard by cloven hoofs, led straight down through the brush to the rear of the cabin.

Near the side of the cabin grew a stunted cottonwood tree, and hanging to a large branch by a noosed rope was the figure of a man. Blaze and Frenchy dismounted and walked around the tree. The body was tightly bound with ropes, and pinned to the breast of the dead man’s shirt was a square of paper on which was crudely printed--