Buck Peters, ranchman
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Title: Buck Peters, ranchman
being the story of what happened when Buck Peters, Hopalong Cassidy, and their Bar-20 associates went to Montana
Creator: Clarence Edward Mulford
John Wood Clay
Illustrator: Maynard Dixon
Release date: May 24, 2013 [eBook #42800]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42800
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUCK PETERS, RANCHMAN ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Dust cover art]
[Illustration: Cover]
Buck Peters, Ranchman
Being the Story of What Happened When Buck Peters,
Hopalong Cassidy, and Their Bar-20
Associates Went to Montana
BY
Clarence E. Mulford
AND
John Wood Clay
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
BY MAYNARD DIXON
SECOND EDITION
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1912
Copyright
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1912
Published March, 1912
Published April, 1912
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
ALSO BY MR. MULFORD
HOPALONG CASSIDY. With five illustrations in color by Maynard Dixon.
$1.50
THE ORPHAN. With illustrations in color by Allen True. 91.50
BAR-20. Illustrated by N. C. Wyeth and F. E. Schoonover. $1.50
BAR-20 DAYS. With four illustrations in color by Maynard Dixon. $1.35
net
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
CHICAGO
Contents
CHAPTER
I Tex Returns
II H. Whitby Booth is Shown How
III Buck Makes Friends
IV The Foreman of the Double Y
V "Comin' Thirty" has Notions
VI An Honest Man and a Rogue
VII The French Rose
VIII Tex Joins the Enemy
IX Any Means to an End
X Introducing a Parasite
XI The Man Outside
XII A Hidden Enemy
XIII Punctuation as a Fine Art
XIV Fighting the Itch
XV The Slaughter of the Innocents
XVI The Master Mind
XVII Hopalong's Night Ride
XVIII Karl to the Rescue
XIX The Weak Link
XX Misplaced Confidence
XXI Pickles Tries to Talk
XXII "A Ministering Angel"
XXIII Hopalong's Move
XXIV The Rebellion of Cock Murray
XXV Mary Receives Company
XXVI Hunters and Hunted
XXVII Points of the Compass
XXVIII The Heart of a Rose
Illustrations
So she stood, silently regarding him . . . _Frontispiece_
(missing from source book)
The rifle belonging to Hopalong never missed--and besides, he had made
his wish
Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him
As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's, while his right hand
flashed to his hip
Buck Peters, Ranchman
CHAPTER I
TEX RETURNS
Johnny Nelson reached up for the new, blue flannel shirt he had hung
above his bunk, and then placed his hands on hips and soliloquized: "Me
an' Red buy a new shirt apiece Saturday night an' one of 'em 's gone
Sunday mornin'; purty fast work even for this outfit."
He strode to the gallery to ask the cook, erstwhile subject of the Most
Heavenly One, but the words froze on his lips. Lee Hop's
stoop-shouldered back was encased in a brand new, blue flannel shirt,
the price mark chalked over one shoulder blade, and he sing-songed a
Chinese classic while debating the advisability of adopting a pair of
trousers and thus crossing another of the boundaries between the Orient
and the Occident. He had no eyes in the back of his head but was rarely
gifted in the "ways that are strange," and he felt danger before the
boot left Johnny's hand. Before the missile landed in the dish pan Lee
Hop was digging madly across the open, half way to the ranch house, and
temporary safety.
Johnny fished out the boot and paused to watch the agile cook. "He 's
got eyes all over hisself--an' no coyote ever lived as could beat him,"
was his regretful comment. He knew better than to follow--Hopalong's
wife had a sympathetic heart, and a tongue to be feared. She had not
yet forgotten Lee Hop's auspicious initiation as an _ex-officio_ member
of the outfit, and Johnny's part therein. And no one had been able to
convince her that sympathy was wasted on a "Chink."
The shirtless puncher looked around helplessly, and then a grin slipped
over his face. Glancing at the boot he dropped it back into the dish
water, moved swiftly to Red's bunk, and in a moment a twin to his own
shirt adorned his back. To make matters more certain he deposited on
Red's blankets an old shirt of Lee Hop's, and then sauntered over to
Skinny's bunk.
"Hoppy said he 'd lick me if I hurt th' Chink any more; but he did n't
say nothin' to Red. May th' best man win," he muttered as he lifted
Skinny's blankets and fondled a box of cigars. "One from forty-three
leaves forty-two," he figured, and then, dropping to the floor and
crawling under the bunk, he added a mark to Skinny's "secret" tally.
Skinny always liked to know just how many of his own cigars he smoked.
"Now for a little nip, an' then th' open, where this cigar won't talk so
loud," he laughed, heading towards Lanky's bunk. The most diligent
search failed to produce, and a rapid repetition also failed. Lanky's
clothes and boots yielded nothing and Johnny was getting sarcastic when
his eyes fell upon an old boot lying under a pile of riding gear in a
corner of the room. Keeping his thumb on the original level he drank,
and then added enough water to bring the depleted liquor up to his
thumb. "Gee--I 've saved sixty-five dollars this month, an' two days
are gone already," he chuckled. He received sixty-five dollars, and
what luxuries were not nailed down, every month.
Mounting his horse he rode away to enjoy the cigar, happy that the
winter was nearly over. There was a feeling in the air that told of
Spring, no matter what the calendar showed, and Johnny felt unrest
stirring in his veins. When Johnny felt thus exuberant things promised
to move swiftly about the bunk-house.
When far enough away from the ranch houses he stopped to light the
cigar, but paused and, dropping the match, returned the "Maduro" to his
pocket. He could not tell who the rider was at that distance, but it
was wiser to be prudent. Riding slowly forward, watching the other
horseman, he saw a sombrero wave, and spurred into a lope. Then he
squinted hard and shook his head.
"Rides like Tex Ewalt--but it ain't, all right," he muttered. Closer
inspection made him rub his eyes. "That arm swings like Tex, just th'
same! An' I did n't take more'n a couple of swallows, neither. Why,
d--n it! If that ain't him I 'm going' to see _who_ it is!" and he
pushed on at a gallop. When the faint hail floated down the wind to him
he cut loose a yell and leaned forward, spurring and quirting. "Old
son-of-a-gun 's come back!" he exulted. "Hey, Tex! Oh, Tex!" he
yelled; and Tex was yelling just as foolishly.
They came together with a rush, but expert horsemanship averted a
collision, and for a few minutes neither could hear clearly what the
other was saying. When things calmed down Johnny jammed a cigar into his
friend's hands and felt for a match.
"Why, I don't want to take yore last smoke, Kid," Tex objected.
"Oh, go ahead! I 've got a hull _box_ of 'em in th' bunk-house," was
the swift reply. "Could n't stay away, eh? Did n't like th' East,
nohow, did you? Gosh, th' boys 'll be some tickled to see you, Tex.
Goin' to stay? How you feelin'?"
"You bet I 'm a-stayin'," responded Tex. "Is that Lanky comin'?"
"Hey, Lanky!" yelled Johnny, standing up and waving the approaching
horseman towards them. "_Pronto_! Tex 's come back!"
Lanky's pony's legs fanned a haze under him and he rammed up against Tex
so hard that they had to grab each other. Everybody was talking at once
and so they rode towards the bunk-house, picking up Billy on the way.
"Where's Hopalong?" demanded Tex. "Married! H--l he is!" A strange
look flitted across his face. "Well, I 'm d--d! An' where 's Red?"
Johnny glanced ahead just in time to see Lee Hop sail around a corner of
the corral, and he replied with assurance, "Red 's th' other side of th'
corral."
"Huh!'" snorted Lanky, "You 've got remarkable eyes, Kid, if you can see
through--well, I 'm hanged if he _ain't_!"
After Red came Pete, waving a water-soaked boot. They disappeared and
when Tex and his friends had almost reached the corral, Lee Hop rounded
the same corner again, too frightened even to squeal. As he started
around the next corner he jumped away at an angle, Pete, still waving
the boot, missing him by inches. Pete checked his flow of language as
he noticed the laughing group and started for it with a yell. A moment
later Red came into sight, panting heavily, and also forgot the cook.
Lee Hop stopped and watched the crowd, taking advantage of the
opportunity to gain the cook shack and bar the door. "Dlam shirt no
good--sclatchee like helle," he muttered. White men were strange--they
loved each other like brothers and fought one another's battles. "Led
head! Led head!" he cried, derisively. "My hop you cloke! Hop you
cloke chop-chop! No fliend my, savee?"
Skinny Thompson, changing his trousers in the bunkroom, heard Lee's
remarks and laughed. Then he listened--somebody was doing a lot of
talking. "They 're loco, plumb loco, or else somethin's wrong," and he
hopped to the door. A bunched crowd of friends were tearing toward him,
yelling and shooting and waving sombreros, and a second look made him
again miss the trousers' leg and hop through the door to save himself.
The blood swept into his face as he saw the ranch house and he very
promptly hopped back again, muttering angrily.
The crowd dismounted at the door and tried to enter _en masse_; becoming
sane it squirmed into separate units and entered as it should. Lee Hop
hastily unbarred his door and again fled for his life. When he returned
he walked boldly behind his foreman, and very close to him,
gesticulating wildly and trying to teach Hopalong Cantonese. The
foreman hated to chide his friends, but he and his wife were tired of
turning the ranch house into a haven for Chinese cooks.
As he opened the door he was grabbed and pushed up against a man who
clouted him on the back and tried to crush his hand. "Hullo, Cassidy!
Best sight I've laid eyes on since I left!" yelled the other above the
noise.
"Tex!" exclaimed Hopalong. "Well, I'm d--d! When did you get here?
Going to stay? Got a job yet? How'd you like the East? Married? _I_
am--best thing I ever did. You look white--sick?"
"City color--like the blasted collars and shirts," replied the other,
still pumping the hand. "I 'm goin' to stay, I 'm lookin' for a job,
an' I 'd ruther punch cows for my keep than get rich in th' East. It 's
all fence-country--can't move without bumping into somebody or
something--an' noise! An' crooked! They 'd steal th' fillin's out of
yore teeth when you go to talk--an' you won't know it!"
"Like to see 'em fool _me_!" grunted Johnny, looking savage.
"Huh! Th' new beginners 'd pick you out to practise on," snorted Red.
"That yore shirt or mine?" he asked, suspiciously.
"They 'd give you money for th' fun of taking it away from you,"
asserted Tex. "Why, one feller, a slick dresser, too, asks me for th'
time. I was some proud of that ticker--cost nigh onto a hundred
dollars. He thanks me an' slips into th' crowd. When I went to put th'
watch back I did n't have none. I licked th' next man, old as he was,
who asks me for th' time. He was plumb surprised when I punched
him--reckon he figured I was easy."
"Ain't they got policemen?" demanded Red.
"Yes; but _they_ don't carry watches--they 're too smart."
"Have a drink, Tex," suggested Lanky, bottle in hand. When the owner of
it took a drink he looked at his friends and then at the bottle, disgust
pictured on his face. "This liquor's shore goin' to die purty soon.
It's gettin' weaker every day. Now I wonder what in h--l Cowan makes it
out of?"
"It _is_ sort of helpless," admitted Tex. "Now, Kid, I 'll borrow
another of them cigars of yourn. Them Maduros are shore good stuff. I
would n't ask you only you said you had a--"
"D'ju see any shows in th' East?" demanded Johnny, hurriedly: "Real,
good, bang-up shows?"
Skinny faded into the bunk-room and soon returned, puzzled and
suspicious. He slipped Tex a cigar and in a few moments sidled up close
to the smoker.
"That as good as th' Kid's?" he asked, carelessly.
Tex regarded it gravely: "Yes; better. I like 'em black, but don't say
nothin' to Johnny. He likes them blondes 'cause he 's young."
It was not long before Tex, having paid his respects to the foreman's
wife, returned to the bunk-house, leaned luxuriously against the wall
and told of his experiences in the East. He had an attentive audience
and it swayed easily and heartily to laughter or sympathy as the words
warranted. There was much to laugh at and a great deal to strain
credulity. But the great story was not told, the story of the things
pitiful in the manner in which they showed up how square a regenerated
man could be, and how false a woman. It was the old story--ambition
drove him out into a new world with nothing but a clean conscience, a
strong, deft pair of hands, and a clever brain; a woman drove him back,
beaten, disheartened, and perilously near the devious ways he had
forsaken. He could not stay in the new surroundings without
killing--and he knew the woman was to blame; so when he felt the ground
slip under his hesitating feet, he threw the new life behind him and
hastened West, feverish to gain the locality where he had learned to
look himself in the face with regret and remorse, but without shame.
In turn he learned of the things that had occurred since he had left: of
the bitter range-war; of his best friend's promotion and marriage; and
of Buck Peters' new venture among hostile strangers. The latter touched
him deeply--he knew, from his own bitter experiences, the disheartening
struggle against odds great enough to mean a hard fight for Buck and all
his old outfit. Something that in Tex's heart had been struggling for
weeks, the vague uneasiness which drove him faster and faster towards
the West, now possessed him with a strength not to be denied. He knew
what it was--the old lust for battle, the game of hand and wits with
life on the table, could not be resisted. The southern range was now
peaceful, thanks to Buck and his men, thanks to Meeker's real nature;
the Double Arrow and the C80 formed a barrier of lead and steel on the
north and east, a barrier that no rustler cared to force. Peace meant
solitude on the sun-kissed range and forced upon him opportunities for
thought--and insanity, or suicide. But up in Montana it would be
different; and the field, calling insistently for Tex to come, was one
where his peculiar abilities would be particularly effective. Buck
needed friends, but stubbornly forbade any of his old outfit to join
him. Of course, they would disregard his commands and either half or
all of the Bar Twenty force would join him; but their going would be
delayed until well after the Spring round-up, for loyalty to their home
ranch demanded this. Tex was free, eager, capable, and as courageous as
any man. He had the cunning of a coyote, the cold savagery of a wolf,
and the power of a tiger. In his lightning-fast hands a Colt rarely
missed--and he gathered from what he heard that such hands were
necessary to make the right kind of history on the northern range.
Finally Hopalong arose to go to the ranch house for the noon meal,
taking Tex with him. The foreman and his wife did not eat with the
outfit, because the outfit would not allow it. Mary had insisted at
first that her husband should not desert his friends in that manner, and
he stood neutral on the question. But the friends were not
neutral--they earnestly contended that he belonged to his wife and they
would not intrude. Lanky voiced their attitude in part when he said: "We
've had him a long time. We borrow him during workin' hours--we never
learned no good from him, so we ain't goin' to chance spottin' our lily
white souls." But there was another reason, which Johnny explained in
naive bluntness: "Why, Ma'am, we eats in our shirt sleeves, an' we grabs
regardless. We has to if we don't want Pete to get it all. An' somehow
I don't think we 'd git very fat if we had to eat under wraps. You see,
we 're free-an'-easy--an' we might starve, all but Pete. Why, Ma'am,
Pete can eat any thin', anywheres, under any conditions. So we sticks
to th' old table an' awful good appetites."
So Hopalong and Tex walked away together, the limp of the one keeping
time with that of the other, for Tex's wounded knee had mended a great
deal better than he had hoped for. Hopalong stopped a moment to pat his
wolf hounds, briefly complimenting them to Tex, and then pushed open the
kitchen door, shoving Tex in ahead of him.
"Just in time, boys," said Mary, "I hope you 're good an' hungry."
They both grinned and Hopalong replied first: "Well, I don't believe
Pete can afford to give us much of a handicap to-day."
"Nor any other time, as far's I 'm concerned," added Tex, laughing. "We
'll do yore table full justice, Mrs. Cassidy," he assured her.
Mary, dish in hand, paused between the stove and the table. She looked
at Tex with mischievous eyes: "Billy-Red tells me you love him like a
brother. Is he deceiving me?"
Hopalong laughed and Tex replied, smiling: "More like a sister, Mrs.
Cassidy--I can't find any faults in him, an' we don't fight."
Mary completed her journey to the stove, filled the dish and carried it
to the table; resting her hands on the edge of the table, she leaned
forward in seeming earnestness. "Well, you must know that we are one,
and if you love Billy-Red--" finishing with an expressive gesture.
"Those who love me call me Mary."
Tex's face was gravely wistful, but a wrinkle showed at the outer corner
of his eyes. "Well," he drawled, "those who love me call me Tex."
"Good!" exclaimed Hopalong, grinning.
"An' I 'm thankful that my hair 's not th' color to cause any trustin'
soul to call me by a more affectionate name," Tex finished. He ducked
Hopalong's punch while Mary laughed a bird-like trill that brought to
her husband's face an expression of idolizing happiness and made Tex
smile in sympathy. As the dinner progressed Tex shared less and less in
the conversation, preferring to listen and make occasional comments, and
finally he spoke only when directly addressed.
When the meal was over and the two men started to go into the
sitting-room, Mary said: "You 'll have to excuse me, Mr.--er--Tex," she
amended, smiling saucily. "I guess you two men can take care of each
other while I red up."
"We 'll certainly try hard, Mrs.--er--Mary," Tex replied, his face grave
but his eyes twinkling. "We watched each other once before, you know."
As soon as they were alone Hopalong waved his companion to a chair and
bluntly asked a question: "What's th' matter, Tex? You got plumb quiet
at th' table."
The other, following his friend's example, filled a pipe before he
replied.
"Well, I was thinkin'--could n't help it; an' I was drawin' a contrast
that hurt. Hoppy, I 'm not goin' to stay here longer 'n I can help; you
don't need me a little bit, an' if you took me in yore outfit it 'd be
only because you want to help me. This ain't no place for me--I need
excitement, clean, purposeful excitement, an' you fellows have made this
part of th' country as quiet as a Quaker meetin'. I 've been thinkin'
Buck needs somebody that 'll stick to him--an' there ain't nothin' I
won't do for Buck. So I 'm goin' to pull my freight north, but _not_ as
Tex Ewalt."
"Tex, if you do that I 'll be able to sleep better o' nights," was the
earnest reply. "We 'd like to have you. You know that, but it might
mean life to Buck if he had you. Lord, but could n't you two raise h--l
if you started! He 'll be tickled half to death to see you--there will
be at least one man he won't have to suspect."
Tex considered a moment. "He won't see me--to know me. I 'm one man
when I 'm known, when I 've declared myself; I can be two or three if I
don't declare myself. One fighting man won't do him much good--if I
could take th' outfit along we would n't waste no time in strategy. Th'
rest of th' population, hostile to Buck, would move out as we rode
in--an' they would n't come back. No, I 'm playing th' stranger to
Buck. Somebody 's goin' to pay me for it, too. An' th' pay 'll not be
in money but in results. I won't starve, not as long as people like to
play cards. I quit that, you know; but if I do play, it 'll be part of
my bigger game."
"I feel sorry for th' card-playin' population if you figger you ought to
eat," smiled Hopalong, reminiscently.
"If I 'd 'a' knowed about Buck, I 'd 'a' gone to Montana 'stead of
comin' here, an' saved some valuable time," Tex observed.
"But as far as that goes, Tex, they can't do much before Spring,
anyhow," Hopalong remarked, thoughtfully. "An' it's yore own fault," he
added. "We wanted to send you th' news occasionally, but you never let
us know where you was. We 'd 'a' liked to hear from you, too."
"Yes, I reckon I 've got time enough; besides, I need th' exercise,"
agreed Tex.
"How is it you never wrote?" asked Hopalong, curiously.
Tex left his seat and walked to the door. "Take a walk with me--this
ain't no place to tell a story like that."
"I 've got somethin' better 'n that--I want to go down to th' H2 an' see
my father-in-law for a couple of minutes. Never met him, did you? We
can ride slow an' have lots of time. Be with you in a minute," and
Hopalong hastened to ask his wife if she had any word to send to her
father. He joined Tex at the bunkhouse, now deserted except for Lee
Hop, and in a minute they left for the H2. As they rode, Tex told his
story.
"This is going to be short an' meaty. When I left here I struck Kansas
City first, then Chicago, spending a few days in each of them. I 'd
heard a lot about New York, an' headed for it. I had n't been there
very long before I met a woman, an' you know they can turn us punchers
into fool knots. Well, I courted her four days an' married her--oh, I
was plumb in love with her, all right. She was one of them sweet,
dreamy, clingin' kind--pretty as h--l, too. I had a good job by then,
and for most a year I was too happy to put my feet on this common old
earth. I never gambled, never drank, and found it not very hard to quit
cussing, except on real, high-toned occasions. But I never could get
along without my gun. Civilization be d--d! There 's more crooks an'
killers in New York than you an' me ever saw or heard of. Once I was
glad I had it--did n't have to shoot, though. Th' man got careless an'
let his gun waver a little an' was lookin' at th' works in _mine_ before
he knowed it. He did n't want no money--what he needed was a match, an'
he was doin' it to win a bet--or so he palavers. I takes his stubby .32
an' kicks him so he 'd _earn_ that bet, an' lets him go. I had to
laugh--him stackin' agin _me_ at that game!
"Well, I got promoted, an' had to travel out of town every two weeks. I
'd be gone two days an' then turn up bright an' smilin' for my wife to
admire. Once I was wired to come back quick on account of somethin'
unexpected turnin' up, an' I lopes home to spend that second night in my
own bed. I remember now that I wondered if th' wife would be there or
at her mother's.
"She was there, but she was n't admirin' _me_. I saw red, an' th' fact
that I did n't go loco proved that I ain't never goin'. But th' trigger
hung on a breath an' _he_ knowed it. He was pasty white an' could n't
hardly stand up. Then th' shock wore off an' he was th' coolest man in
town.
"'What are you goin' to do about it?' he asks, slowly. 'Yore wife loves
_me_, not you. She 's allus loved me--you never really reckoned she was
in love with _you_, did you?"
"_I_ was shocked then, only I was wearin' my poker face an' he could n't
see nothin'. 'Why, I did think, once in a while, that she loved me,' I
retorts. 'I certainly kept you hangin' 'round th' gutter an' _sneakin'_
in, anyhow. When I get through with you they 'll find you in that same
gutter.'
"'Goin' to shoot me? I _ought_ to have a chance. I ain't got no
gun--you see, I ain't wild an' woolly like you,' an' he actually
grinned!
"'What kind of a chance did _I_ have, out of town an' not suspectin' any
thin'?' I asks.
"'But she _loves_ me; don't you understand? She was _happy_ with me.
What good will it do _you_ if you kill me an' break her heart? She 'll
never look at you again.'
"'I reckon she won't anyhow,' I retorts. 'Leastwise not if I can help
it. Look here: Don't you know you deserve to die?'
"'That's open to debate, but for brevity I 'll say yes; but I want a
chance. I gave _you_ a chance every time I came here--you did n't take
it, that's all.'
"'I 'll get you a gun, d--d if I won't,' I replied, an' backed towards
th' valise where my big old Colt was. But he stops me with a sneer.
"'I said a _chance_! You was _born_ with a gun in your hand, an' it 'd
be pure murder.'
"'I 'm glad somethin 's pure,' says I. Then I remembered that old
valise again. Remember th' last thing I did for you an' Peters before I
quit, Hoppy?"
Hopalong thought quickly. "Yes, you an' Pete put in two days settin'
poisoned cows in th' brush on th' west line. Did a good job, too.
Ain't been bothered none by wolves since."
Tex chuckled. "There was a bottle of yore stuff in that war-bag an' it
was half full. I don't remember puttin' it there, but there she was.
So I takes it an' holds it up for him to look at, readin' th' label out
loud. That was th' only time my wife says a word, an' she says _his_
name, sorrowful; then she goes on lookin' from him to me an' from me to
him.
"He laughs at me an' sneers again. 'Think I 'm go in' to eat that?' he
says.
"I don't answer. I 'm too busy workin' with one hand an' watchin' him.
I knowed he did n't have no gun, but there was chairs an' bottles
a-plenty. I got down a bottle of bitters an' poured some of it in a
couple of glasses. Then I drops in some pain-killer an' stirs it up.
It does n't mix very well, so I pushed th' remains of their supper to
one side an' slips th' two glasses under th' table cloth, holdin' one
edge of it in my teeth so it would n't touch th' glasses an' let him
follow 'em. If they 'd been cards I 'd 'a' spread 'em monte-fashion
under his nose--but they was n't.
"'Now, you skunk--take your pick an' don't wrangle no more about yore
chances. An' you drink it before I drink mine, or I 'll blow yore
cussed ribs loose!'
"I had given him credit for havin' a-plenty nerve, but now I sees it was
n't nerve at all--just gall. He was pasty white again, almost green,
an' his little soul plumb tried to climb out of his eyes. I was a whole
lot surprised at how he went to pieces an' I was savagely elated at th'
way he was a-starin' at that cloth. He looks at me for an instant and
then back at th' little shell game on th' table' an' he says in a weak,
thin voice: 'How 'd I know--you 'll drink--yourn?'
"'You ain't supposed to be knowin' anythin' about my habits while I 've
got this gun--an' it's gettin' plumb heavy, too,' I retorts. 'You 've
been yellin' about an even break, an' there it is. An' if it 'll hurry
things any I 'll pick up my glass now an' drink it as soon as I see yore
glass empty, an' yore Adam's apple bob enough. We won't have to wait
very long before we get results. You 'll pick yore glass an' drain it
or you 'll stop lead.' An' I did n't care, Hoppy, which one he got--I
was worse'n dead then--what th' h--l did I care about livin'?
"I reached out to get my glass as soon as he had his'n an' I laid th'
gun on my knee, knowin' he did n't have no weapon, an' that I could get
th' drop before he could swing a bottle or chair. But I knowed wrong.
He was a liar. As I touched my glass his hand streaks for his hip
pocket. I gave him th' liquor in his eyes an' lunged for his gun hand
just in time. Then I lets loose all th' rage that was boilin' in me an'
when I gets tired of punishin' him, I throws him at th' feet of th'
woman, picks up both guns, gets what personal duffle I need, an' blows
th' ranch. His face was even all over, his nose was busted, his teeth
stuck in his lips, an' he had a broken gun-wrist that gave somebody a
whole lot of trouble before it worked right again, if it ever did. I 'm
glad I did n't shoot him--there was a lot more of satisfaction doin' it
with my naked hands. It was man to man an' I played with him, with all
his extra twenty pounds. By G--d, I can feel it yet!"
During the short pause Hopalong looked steadily ahead with unseeing
eyes, his face hard, his eyes narrowed, and a tightness about his lips
that told plainly what he felt. To come home to that! He realized that
his companion was speaking again and gave close attention.
"I don't know where I put in th' next week, but when I got rational I
found myself in a cell in a Philadelphia jail, along with bums and
crooks. I found that I 'd beat up a couple of policemen when I was
drunk. When I got ready to leave th' town I didn't have a whole lot of
money, so I played cards with what I had an' left th' town as soon as I
had my fare--which did n't take long. That bunch never went up agin'
such a well trained deck in their lives."
This time Hopalong broke the silence that ensued, his hand dropping
unconsciously on his friend's arm in warm, impulsive sympathy. "By
G--d, what a deal! It's awful, Tex; awful!"
"Yes, it was--an' it ain't exactly what you 'd call a joke right now.
But I ain't worryin' none about th' woman--she killed my love stone cold
that night. But when I think of how things _might_ 'a' turned out if
she 'd been square, of th' home I 'd 'a' had--but h--l, what's th' use,
anyhow? Now what hurts me most is my pride an' conceit--an' th' way I
turned to th' drink an' cheatin' so easy. It makes me mad clean through
to think of what a infant I was, how I played th' fool for th' Lord
knows how long; an' sometimes I want to kill somebody to sort of get
square with myself. Up north I 'll be too busy tryin' to make fools out
of other people to do much in th' line of sympathizin' with myself--an'
too busy an' cautious to break back to drink an' cards. That was one of
th' things drove me back here--there 's a whole lot more temptation
facin' a man back East, an' 'specially a feller that's totin' a big load
of trouble."
"Don't it beat all how different luck will run for different people?"
marvelled Hopalong, thinking of his portion.
"That was runnin' in my mind while I was eatin'," replied Tex. "Reckon
I _did_ get sort of quiet. But I 'm plumb glad th' right kind of luck
came yore way, all right."
They rode on for a short time, each busy with his own thoughts, and then
Hopalong looked up. "We 're goin' up to see Buck just as soon as I feel
th' ranch is in proper shape. I 've got to get th' round-up out of th'
way first. You see, we ain't had no honeymoon trip yet."
"Yo 're lucky again; I never could see no joy in hikin' over th' country
changin' trains, livin' in hotels, sleepin' in a different bed every
night, each one worse'n th' one before, lookin' after baggage, an'
workin' hard all th' time. I 've often wondered why it is that two
people jump into all that trouble just as soon as they get into their
own little heaven for th' first time." Then Tex's face grew earnest.
"Now, look here, Hoppy: You ain't goin' up to see Buck till I tell you
to come. I know you, all right; just as soon as you land you 'll be out
gunnin' for th' bunch that's tryin' to bust Buck's game. You ain't
single no more--yo're a married man, an' when a man 's got a wife like
yourn he naturally ain't got no cussed business runnin' 'round puttin'
hisself in th' way of gettin' killed. You let yore gun get plumb dusty
an' when you want any excitement, go out an' try to make water run up
hill, or somethin' simple like that. You handle th' trouble that comes
to you, an' don't go off a-lookin' for it."
They spent the rest of the time in discussing the status of the married
man, and when Mary afterward learned of the stand Tex took she shared
more of her husband's affection for him. After a short stay at the H2
they turned homeward and went thoroughly into the matter of Tex's ride
north. It was agreed that extra precaution would do no harm, and in
order to have no blunder on the part of any one, they decided that it
was best not to say anything about where he was going. Hopalong was
greatly pleased and relieved now that he knew that his old foreman would
have some one to help him fight his battles on that cold, distant range;
but he did not appear to be as cheerful about it as was his companion.
Tex looked forward to the trip with all the eagerness and impatience of
a boy and it showed in his conversation and actions.
When they reached the ranch house at dusk they found Mary cooking a very
small meal, and she waved them off. "You an' Billy-Red can't eat here
to-night: yo 're goin' to eat with th' boys in th' bunk-house. I would
n't spoil your fun for anything. Now you get right out--I mean just
what I say!"
"But, girl--" began Hopalong.
"Now I 've made up my mind, an' that's all there is about it. I can get
along without you this once--I won't do it again, you know--an' I want
you boys to have a rousin' good time all by yoreselves. I want th' boys
to like me, Billy-Red, to feel that I ain't changed _everythin'_ by
bein' here. Now you clear out--Lee knows all about it, an' I cooked
some goodies this afternoon for th' feast. Johnny cleaned out th' cake
tins an' scraped th' bowls I mixed th' fillin' in--I had to drive him
away. Look! There he is, leanin' up against that tree watchin' for me
to set somethin' out to cool. He purty near got away with a pie--oh, he
's terrible! But he 's a good boy, just th' same."
Tex turned, emitted a blood-curdling yell and started for the anxious
Johnny, Hopalong close behind, while Mary stood in the door and watched
the fun, laughing with delight. The outfit piled out of the bunk-house,
caught sight of Johnny pounding towards them, and joined in, much to the
Kid's disgust. They did not know anything about the affair, but they
did not have to know--Johnny was legitimate prey for all, at any time
and under any conditions. The fleeing youngster was nearly caught twice
as he dodged and doubled, but once past them, he drew away with ease.
When the winded and laughing pursuers finally stopped, he circled around
to the nearest corral, found a seat on the gate and watched them
straggle back to the bunk-house, deriding them with cheerful abandon,
dissecting them with a shrewd and cutting tongue. He took them up in
rotation and laid bare their faults and weaknesses until they leaned
against the wall and laughed at each other until the tears came. Then
he turned to ridicule.
"An' there's Skinny," he continued, slowly and gravely, while he rolled
a cigarette. "Th' only way you can see him, except at noon, is to look
at him in front, or at his feet. Why, I grabbed a broom in th' dark one
time an' shore apologized before I realized that it was n't him at all.
When he sits down he looks like a figger four, an' I 'm allus a-scared
he 'll get into one pant's laig by mistake. When he eats solid stuff he
looks like a rope with a knot in it--it's scary watchin' them knots go
down--looks like he was skinnin' hisself. You can't tell whether he 's
comin' or goin'--th' bumps is all alike. His laigs is so long he looks
like a wishbone an' I 'm holdin' my breath most of th' time for fear he
'll split. When he goes huntin' all he has to do is to stand still so
th' game won't see him; it wanders up to see what's holdin' up th' hat.
He put Pete's pants on once when he fell in th' crick--after he fell
in--an' I lifts my hat when I saw th' ridin' skirts. His laigs are
beautiful--except for them knobs half way down where they hinge. An'
when he swallers a mouthful of water he looks like a muscle dance. Why,
I got into his bunk one night by mistake an' spent five minutes a-tryin'
to smooth out a crease in th' blanket. Then he wakes up an' tells me to
go over an' scratch Red for a change. Tells me to git off 'n him,
'cause I 'm flattenin' him out. That can't be did, an' he knew it, too.
"What _you_ laughin' at, Red? You ain't got no laugh comin'. Every
mornin' you sit on th' bunk an' count yore clothes an' groan. You put
yore hat on first an' yore boots next. Then you takes off th' boots so
yore socks can get on. Then th' boots go on again. Then they come off
again to let yore pants go on, after which on go th' boots again. Then
you take yore hat off to let th' shirt slip over yore head an' it goes
right back on again. I 've seen you feel around for yore suspenders for
five minutes before you remembered they was under th' shirt."
"Yo 're another! I don't wear no suspenders!"
"No, you don't. Not now, but you did. You quit 'em 'cause they cost a
dollar a pair an' kept gettin' lost under th' shirt. Now when you dress
up you lift my suspenders. Tex never saw you in love. I did; lots of
times; about twice a month. You put th' saddle on th' corral wall,
close th' horse, an' mount th' gate. You eat coffee with a knife an'
sugar th' water. When I wake up first I see you huggin' th' pillow,
which is my old coat wrapped around my old pants. If anybody says
'patience,' you bust yore neck a-lookin' for her. What did you do up to
Wallace's that time when his niece came on to visit at his ranch?
Wallace told me all about it, an' all about th' toothbrush, too. Lemme
see if you remember good. Did n't you--"
"You never mind about me rememberin'," Red shouted, grabbing up a bucket
of water off the wash bench and starting for his tormentor. Johnny
leaped down and backed off, dodging behind the corral wall. As Red made
the turn he fell sprawling, the water affectionately clinging to him.
When he arose and looked around Johnny was entering the bunk-house door
and the rest of the outfit clung together trying to hold themselves up,
and voiced its misery in wails. At that moment Lee Hop buck-jumped
around the corner on his trip from the cook shack to the corral, his
favorite place of refuge when the ranch house was cut off from him, and
he saw Red too late. When he was able to think he was minus a shirt and
Red was carrying him under one arm and the shirt under the other.
"Now, you heathen--get that grub on th' table or I 'll picket you an'
Johnny to th' same stake!" Red threatened, grimly.
"Him get clake. Him stealie pie. Alle same in klitchen. Eat
chop-chop!" wailed the cook. He was promptly dropped and looked up in
time to see a rush for the cook shack. But Johnnie was placing the
delicacies on the table and close scrutiny failed to discover anything
wrong with them, notwithstanding the suspicious manner in which his
tongue groomed his teeth.
The supper was a howling success, and unlike the usual Bar-20 meals, was
prolonged, and fun seasoned every dish. Even Lee Hop, incapable as he
was of grasping most of the points in their rapid flight, and not wholly
in sympathy with certain members of the outfit--even his countenance
lost its expression of constant watchfulness; his mouth widened into a
grin whose extremities were lost somewhere in the region of his back
hair; his eyes gleamed like jet buttons in a dish of mush; and his
moisture-laden skin shone until, altogether, his head resembled nothing
so much as a pumpkin-bogie, a good-natured one, with an extra large
candle lighted inside. He was tempted now and again to insert a remark
in the short openings, but experience checked him in time. When the
crowd filed into the living-room it was to tell tales of men living and
dead; stories that covered a great range of human action, from the
foolishness of "Aristotle" Smith to the cold ferocity and cruelty of
Slippery Trendley and Deacon Rankin. The hours flew past with
astonishing speed and when Tex looked at his watch he stared for a
moment and returned it to his pocket with a quick, decisive movement.
"It's past midnight, fellows, an' I 'm riding' on in the mornin'," he
remarked, arising.
The crowd looked its amazement and then vociferously announced its
regret. These men held it a breach of etiquette to question, and
because there were no "whys" or "wherefores," Tex felt impelled to
explain. He was going on to see old friends, but he would return. The
Bar-20 was his range and he would get back as soon as he could. In
deference to his wishes and to let him get as much sleep as possible,
the outfit quietly prepared for rest, and Hopalong, bidding them
good-night, departed for the ranch house.
Breakfast over the next morning, Tex rode north, followed by an escort
of friends of which any man would have been proud. Hopalong and Mary
rode at his side and behind in a compact bunch came the boys. They
stopped when the river trail was reached and Tex shook hands all around.
"I 'm sorry to leave you, Hopalong," he said earnestly; "but you know
how it is: I 've been away quite a spell and things happen quick out
here. You 'll see me again this Summer an' I 'll come to stay if you
want me. Mary, I 'm mighty glad to see he 's got such a good
foreman--he 's needed one a long time; an' I can see a big improvement
in him already."
"Reckon you might profit by the example--must be girls a-plenty out in
this country who 'd make good foremen," she replied, laughing.
Tex's face showed no trace of hurt as the chance arrow sped to the mark;
he laughed, pointing at Johnny. "I reckon there are; but the Kid would
n't give me no show."
"We 'll answer for him, Tex," chuckled Red. "We cured him once before
an' we 'd be shore glad to do it again."
"Yep--kept him in the hills, starvin' an' freezin' for a whole month,"
sweetly added Skinny.
Johnny flushed and squirmed but had no time to retort, Pete and the
others being too busy talking to Tex to let him be heard. Finally Tex
backed off, raised his hat, and with a bow and a smile to Mary, wheeled
and loped off along the trail to run Spring a race to Montana. Every
time he looked back he waved in answer to his friends, and then, swiftly
mounting a rise, was silhouetted for an instant against the white clouds
on the horizon and as swiftly dropped from sight, a faint chorus of
yells reaching him.
The outfit turned slowly to return to their ranch and when they missed
their foreman, they saw him sitting silent where they had left him, his
wife's hand on his arm. He could still see Tex against the sky, clear
cut, startlingly strong and potent, and he nodded his head slowly. "He
's needed up there, an' he 's the best man to go." Turning, he was
surprised to find his wife so near and he smiled joyously: "Wouldn't go
an' leave me all alone, would you, Honey? Yo 're shore a thoroughbred
an' I 'm plumb proud of you. Race you to th' bunch!"
CHAPTER II
H. WHITBY BOOTH IS SHOWN HOW
If any man of the Bar-20 punchers had been brought face to face with
George McAllister he would have suffered the shock of his life.
"Frenchy?" he would have hesitated, "What in--? Why, Frenchy?" And the
shock would have been mutual, since Frenchy McAllister had been dead
some months, a fact of which his brother George was sorrowfully aware.
Yet so alike were they that any of Frenchy's old friends would have
thought the dead come to life.
A distinguishing feature was the eye-glasses which George had long found
necessary. He took them off and laid aside his book as the butler
announced Mr. Booth.
H. Whitby Booth entered the room with the hesitating step of one who has
a favor to ask. A tall, well-set-up man of the blonde type of so many
of his countrymen, his usual movements were slow when compared with the
nervous action of those in the hustling city of Chicago. Hesitation
gave him the appearance of a mechanical figure, about to run down. Mr.
McAllister's hearty welcome did not seem to reassure him.
"Ah--Miss McAllister--ah--is not at home," he volunteered, rather than
questioned.
The other man eyed him quizzically. "No," he agreed, "she and Mrs.
Blake are out somewhere; I am not just sure where. Shall I inquire?"
"No, oh no. I rather wanted to talk to you, you know--that is--ah--"
"Sit down, Whitby, and relieve your mind. Cigars on that table there,
and some whiskey and fizz. Shall I ring for brandy?"
"Awfully good of you, really. No, I--I think I 'll go in as I am. The
fact is I want Margaret--Miss McAllister--and I thought I 'd ask if you
had any objections."
"Margaret has."
"Oh, I say!"
"Fact, she has. Might as well face the music, Whitby. The truth is
just this: It's less than a week ago since Margaret was holding you up
as a horrible example. Margaret comes from a line of hustlers; she has
not had common sense and national pride bred out of her in a fashionable
school; and she looks with extreme disfavor on an idler."
"But I say, Mr. McAllister, you don't think--"
"No, my boy, I don't think where Margaret is concerned--Margaret thinks.
Don't misunderstand me. I like you, Whitby. Confidentially, I believe
Margaret does, too. But I am quite sure she will never marry a man who
does nothing and, as she expressed it herself, lives on an allowance
from his father."
"Then I understand, sir, you have no objections?"
"None in the world--because I believe you will strike your gait before
long and become something of a hustler yourself. But let me tell you,
Margaret does n't deal in futures--I 'm used to it--but she insists on a
fact, not a probability."
Whitby drew a breath which was largely expressive of relief. "In that
case, sir, I 'll try my luck," and he arose to say good-night.
"You know where to find them?"
"Rather! I was going there when I had spoken to you."
"I see," said Mr. McAllister, somewhat grimly, remembering the other's
greeting. "Sit down, Whitby. The night is young, you can't miss them,
and I am so sure of the badness of your luck that I should like to give
you a little encouragement to fall back on." Whitby resumed his seat
and Mr. McAllister puffed thoughtfully at his cigar for a few moments
before speaking.
"Not to go too far back," he began, "my grandfather was a boy when his
father took him from Ireland, the birthplace of the family, to France,
the birthplace of liberty, as the old man thought. Those were stirring
times for that boy and the iron of life entered into him at an early
age. He married and had one son, my father, who thought the liberty of
this country so much better than that of France, that he came here,
bringing his young wife with him; the wife died in giving birth to my
younger brother, John. All that line were hustlers, Whitby. They had
to be, to keep alive. Margaret knows their history better than I do and
glories in it. You see?"
Whitby nodded mournfully. He was beginning to lose confidence again.
"My father would have been alive to-day but for an unfortunate accident
which carried off both him and my mother within a few days. My brother
and myself were found pretty well provided for. My share has not
decreased. In fact I have done very well for a man who is not
avaricious. But I had to fight; and more than once it was a close call,
win or lose. Margaret knows all that, Whitby, and the dear girl is as
proud of her father, I do believe, as of any who went before him. Her
mother left us very soon and Margaret has been my companion ever since
she could talk. Are you beginning to understand?"
"I am, indeed," was the reluctant acknowledgment.
"Very good. Then here is where you come in." His face clouded and he
was silent so long that Whitby looked up inquiringly. The motion
aroused McAllister and he continued:
"My brother was queer. I have always thought his birth had something to
do with it; but however that may be, he was, in my opinion, peculiar in
many of his ways. The choice of his path in life was quite on a par
with his character: he invested every dollar he had in land out West, he
and a partner whom I have never seen; bought and paid for land and stock
at a time when Government land was used by any one without payment of
any kind and when live-stock raising was almost an unknown industry, at
least in that part of the country. But that was n't all. He went out
to the ranch and took his delicate young wife with him, a bride, and
lived in a wild region where they saw only Indians, outlaws, and those
who were worse than either." His face hardened and the hand he laid on
the table trembled as he turned to face to his listener. "Worse than
either, Whitby," he repeated. "The Indians were bad enough at times,
God knows, but there is excuse for their deviltry; there could be no
excuse for those others.
"One reason John gave for going West was that the life would bring
health to his wife. It did so. A few months' time saw her a robust
woman. And then John returned to the ranch one day to come upon a scene
that drove him crazy, I verily believe. No need to go into it, though I
had the details from his partner at the time--John did not write me for
years. They both started out after the murderers and wandered over a
great part of this country before finding the chief fiend. Even his
death brought no peace to John. He would never go back to the old place
nor would his partner, out of feeling for him. After much persuasion I
got them to put matters into my hands, but so many years had passed that
I found the ownership in dispute and it is but lately that I have
succeeded in regaining title. It was too late for John, who died before
I came into possession, but his partner, a man named Peters, has gone up
there from a Texan ranch to run the place. He is half owner and should
be the best man for the job. But--and my experience with those
Westerners places emphasis on that 'but'--I do not really know just what
kind of a man he is. I am putting quite a large sum of money in this
venture, relying upon Peters' knowledge and hoping for a square deal.
And if he is the best man for the place, you are the best man I know to
show me that. Don't interrupt.
"I know right well what Margaret will tell you to-night, and if you want
to make her change her mind, you could have no better opportunity than I
offer. My brother's history is an abiding grief with Margaret, and if
you go out there and make good you will surely make good with her.
"That's all. If I 'm right, come and see me to-morrow at the office. I
will have everything noted down for you in writing. Commit it to memory
and then destroy the notes; because you would be valueless if any one
interested discovered you were acting for me. And don't see Margaret
after to-night before you go."
He arose and held out his hand. Whitby grasped it as he stood up and
looked frankly at him. "It's awfully good of you, Mr. McAllister," he
declared. "You 've left me deuced little hope, I must say, but there 's
no knowing where you are if you don't ask, is there? And if I come a
cropper I 'll try your way and chance it."
"You 'll find my way is right. I 've made mistakes in my life but never
any where Margaret was concerned. Good-night."
* * * * *
Whitby stood at the top of the steps, slowly drawing his right-hand
glove through his gloved left hand, time after time, casting a long look
before he leaped. The driver of his hired _coupe_ eyed him with
calculating patience, observing to himself that if this were a specimen
of the average Englishman, England must be a cinch for a cabman. Whitby
had not yet arrived at the leaping stage when another _coupe_, a private
one with a noticeably fine team, stopped in passing the house, and a
voice hailed him: "Hello, Whit! What are you mooning there for?"
Whitby smiled: for all his consideration he had been pushed in at the
last. He slowly descended the steps while he replied: "Evenin', Wallie.
I was just going to drop in on the Sparrows."
"Good enough! Me, too. Jump in here and let your wagon follow. Do you
hear, you driver? Trail in behind--unless you won't need him, Whit."
"Oh, let him come along. I--ah--I may be leaving rather early, don't
you know."
"That so? Me, too. I'm darned glad I met you, Whit. I 'm in a regular
blue funk--Brown is sulky as a bear. He 's been driving me about for an
hour, I should say, and he does n't understand it. Fact is, Whit, I 'm
going to ask a girl to marry me to-night, and I don't want to, not a
little bit; but if I don't, some other fellow will, and that would
be--well, worse."
"By Jove! Marry you _to-night_! Do you fancy she will?"
"No, you 'bloomin' Britisher.' _Ask_ her, not marry her, to-night. For
the love of Moses! Do you think it's an elopement?"
"Well, I did n't know, you know," and his tone was one of distinct
disappointment. "You seem to be pretty certain she 'll have you."
"Oh! She 'll have me right enough, but I 've got to ask first and make
sure. There 're too many others hanging around to suit me."
"I say, old chap, I hope you won't mind my asking but--it is n't Miss
McAllister, by any chance, is it?"
Wallie turned in his seat and stared at the anxious face of Whitby for a
few moments, then he broke into shouts of laughter. "You, too," he
managed to say; and at last: "No, you trembling aspirant, it isn't, by
any chance, Miss McAllister. Margie and I are good friends, all right,
but not in that way. Oh, you sly Johnnie! Why, I 'll bet a hundred you
're up to the same game, yourself. Own up, now."
"I think a great deal of Miss McAllister, a very great deal. If I
thought she 'd have me I 'd ask her the first opportunity."
"And that will be in a few minutes. She 's bound to be there--and here
we are. Wish me luck, Whit."
"I do, with all my heart, Wallie," and he was very serious in his
earnestness.
"Same to you, Whit, and many--no, not that, of course." They were in
the rooms by this time, both pairs of eyes wandering, searching this way
and that as they moved toward their pretty hostess whose recent marriage
seemed to have increased, if possible, her popularity with the male sex;
she stood so surrounded by a chaffing crowd of men that they found
difficulty in getting near her. They did not linger, however, as each
caught sight of the object of his pursuit at the same time, and their
paths parted from that moment.
The maturity of Margaret McAllister's mind would never have been
suspected from her appearance. The pale green satin gown, overhung with
long draperies of silk-fringed tulle, the low round satin corsage being
partly veiled by a diagonal drapery of the same transparent material,
and ornamented--as was the skirt--with a satin scarf, tied with knots of
ribbon and clusters of water-lilies--this formed a creation that adorned
a perfect figure of medium height, whose symmetry made it seem smaller
than it really was. The Irish temperament and quickness of intelligence
were embodied in a brunette beauty inherited from her French ancestry;
but over all, like the first flush of morning's light on a lovely
garden, lay the delicate charm of her American mother. One of a group
of girls, with several men hovering on the outer circle, she detached
herself upon Whitby's approach and advanced to meet him.
"Good-evening, Mr. Booth. Are n't you late?"
"Yes, rather." Whitby drew comfort from the fact that she had chosen to
notice it.
"Aunt Jessie is over this way. She is complaining of the heat already.
Perhaps you would better mention it."
"Mrs. Blake? I will. I 've a favor to ask of Mrs. Blake. Let's join
her."
Mrs. Blake was of that comfortable age, size, and appearance which
expressed satisfaction with the world and its ways. She affected black
at all times with quite touching consistency; doubly so, since gossip
hinted at a married life not altogether happy. However, her widowhood
did not permit derogatory remarks concerning the late Mr. Blake, who
made up to her in dying all his short-comings when alive; and she had
proven a discreet chaperon for Margaret from the assumption of that
position. Her most conspicuous weakness was endeavoring to overcome a
growing embonpoint with corsets, and the tight lacing undoubtedly had
much to do with her susceptibility to heat. Whitby was a favorite with
her and she greeted him warmly, closing her waving fan to tap him with
it now and again in emphasis.
But Whitby's purpose would not wait; as soon as the chance offered he
begged free, and arose to the occasion with a daring that surprised
himself. "I am going to hide up with Miss McAllister for quite a time,
Mrs. Blake. If any one comes bothering, just put him off, will you?
That is, if Miss McAllister doesn't mind."
"Mind? Of course she doesn't mind. Run along, Margie, and for Heaven's
sake, don't sit in a draft--though I don't believe you can find one in
this house," and the fan was brought into more vigorous action at the
reminding thought.
"Well, I don't know, Mr. Booth," remonstrated Margaret as they moved
away. "They will begin to dance very soon and I promised Wallie Hartman
the opening. You came in together, didn't you?"
"Oh, Wallie! Yes, he was pretty keen on getting here but I rather fancy
he's forgotten about that dance, you know."
"What makes you say that? What mischief are you two brewing?"
"Ah--it's Wallie's secret, you know,--that is, his part of it is--I say,
here 's the very spot."
They had made the turn behind the stairs, where a punch bowl stood; the
space immediately behind the stairs being too low in which to stand
comfortably upright, a mass of foliage was banked in a half circle,
outside of which the stand and punch bowl were placed; inside, a
thoughtful hostess had arranged a _tete-a-tete_, quite unnoticeable from
without. Whitby's attention had been drawn to it by the couple who had
emerged upon their approach, the girl radiant and the man walking on
air, of which details Whitby was entirely oblivious. Margaret was more
observing and she looked after Wallie with a dawning look of
understanding and then at Whitby with a quick glance of apprehension.
There was no time to protest, even if she would, as Whitby had led her
behind the leafy screen before she fully realized the import of his
action.
Like many slow starters, Whitby, when once in movement, set a rapid
pace. He came to the point now with promptitude:
"Miss McAllister, I arrived late because I called on your father before
coming here, to ask his permission to address you. I must say he rather
dashed my hopes, you know. He does n't think I 'm such a bad sort--he
does n't object in the least--but he seemed to fancy his daughter
Margaret would. I--I hope he is mistaken."
She turned to him a face in which the eyes were slowly filling with
tears, nor did she remove the hand upon which his rested, on the curving
back of the seat. It was not her first proposal, by several, but there
was a vibrating earnestness, an unexpected tenderness in this big, slow
Englishman which told her she was going to hurt him seriously when she
spoke. And she did not want to hurt him; with all her heart and soul
she wished she did not have to hurt him.
"I 'm not worthy of you, Margaret. I don't think any man is worthy of a
good woman, and I 'm just an ordinary man. But I 'll _be_ worthy of
you, from to-night.--and that whether you say yes or no.
"You know I love you. You must know I left London and came over here to
follow you. But you don't know how much I care for you--and I can't
tell you. I 'm a duffer at this sort of game--like everything else--I
never did it before--and 'pon my word, I don't know how. But if I could
say what I feel, then perhaps, you might know better. What is it to be,
Margaret? Wait a bit! If you feel doubtful, I 'll wait as long as you
want me to. But--but--I 'm afraid it's no go." He sat looking dumbly
at her, hoping for some sign of encouragement, but there was no
misreading the answer in her face.
It was a long minute before she spoke. She was unnerved by the
hysterical desire to put her arms around him and soothe him as she might
a hurt child. Something of her embarrassment was conveyed to him and
with the wish to save her the pain of refusing in words he started as if
to rise. She stopped him with a gesture.
"Wait. I _will_ say what I want you to know. I like you--no! not in
that way; not the way a woman should--the man she expects to marry.
Perhaps if you had been--I am not sure--but I could _not_ marry a drone.
Oh! why don't you wake up! How _can_ you go on from day to day with no
thought but self-indulgence? You say you love me. Ask yourself: Is not
that merely a form of self-indulgence? Oh, I know you would take care
of me and defer to me and let me have my way in everything--you are that
kind of a man--but to what end? That I might be the more pleasing to
you. Is it your purpose to dawdle through life, taking only such pains
as shall make things more pleasing to you?"
"Is that all, Margaret? Is it only because you fancy I'm a loafer?"
"But you are! You are! Oh! I don't know--I 'm not sure--"
"I 'm sure!" the exulting certainty in his voice startled her. "I 'm
sure!" he repeated. "I may be a bit of an ass in some things but no
woman would care as you care, what a man was or what he did unless she
loved him. You love me, Margaret, thank God! Give me a chance. You
're only a girl, yet. Give me a year and if I go under, or you find I
'm wrong, I 'll thank you for the chance and never blame you. Will
you?"
Her heart was pounding in suffocating throbs and she trembled like a
leaf in the wind before the eager intensity of his gaze. A strong will
held her in check, else she had given way then and there, but she faced
him with a fine bravery. "Yes," she promised, "I will. Go away and
make good."
"Make good! By Jove, that's what your father said. Make good--I 'll
not forget it." His head bent low in an old-fashioned but becoming
salute while her free hand rested unfelt for an instant upon the yellow
hair, a gesture that was at once a blessing and a prayer.
CHAPTER III
BUCK MAKES FRIENDS
The town of Twin River straggled with indifferent impartiality along the
banks of the Black Jack and Little Jill branches where they ran together
to form the Jones' Luck River, two or three houses lying farther north
along the main stream. The trail from Wayback, the nearest railway
point, hugged the east bank of Jones' Luck, shaded throughout its course
by the trees which lined the river, as they did all the streams in this
part of the country: cottonwoods mostly, with an occasional ash or elm.
Looking to the east, the rolling ground sloped upward toward a chain of
hills; to the west, beyond the river, the country lay level to the
horizon. On both sides of the trail the underbrush grew thick; spring
made of it a perfect paradise of blossoms.
Boomerang, pet hobo of Twin River and the only one who ever dared to
come back, left Little Nell's with his characteristic hurried shuffle
and approached the wooden bridge where the Wayback trail crossed the
Jill, and continued south to Big Moose. Boomerang was errand boy just
now, useful man about the hotel or one of the saloons when necessity
drove, at other times just plain bum. He was suspected of having been a
soldier. A sharp "'tention" would startle him into a second's upright
stiffness which after a furtive look around would relax into his
customary shambling lack of backbone. He had one other amusing
peculiarity: let a gun be discharged in his vicinity and there was
trouble right away, trouble the gunner was not looking for; Boomerang
would fly into such a fury of fighting rage, it was a town wonder that
some indignant citizen had not sent him long ago where he never could
come back.
Coming to the bridge he looked casually and from habit along the trail
and espied a horseman riding his way. He studied him reflectively a few
seconds and then spat vigorously at something moving on one of the
bridge planks, much as the practised gun-man snaps without appearing to
aim. "Stranger," he affirmed; "Cow-punch," he added; "Old man," he
shrewdly surmised, and shook his head; "Dunno 'im" and he glanced at the
stain on the plank to see what he had bagged. Among his other pleasing
human habits "Boom" used tobacco--as a masticant--there was the evidence
of the fact. But he had missed and after a wistful look for something
to inspire him to a more successful effort, he shuffled on.
The horseman came at a steady gait, his horse, a likely-looking bay with
black spots, getting over the ground considerably faster than the
cow-ponies common to the locality; approaching the bridge he was slowed
to a walk while his rider took in the town with comprehensive glance. A
tall man, lean and grizzled, with the far-seeing, almost vacant eye of
the plainsman, there was nothing, to any one but such a student of
humanity as "Boom," to indicate his calling, much less his position in
it. The felt hat, soft shirt and rough, heavy suit, the trousers pushed
into the tops of his boots, were such as a man in the town might wear
and many did wear. He forded the stream near the bridge at a walk. Pop
Snow, better known as Dirty, cleverly balancing himself within an inch
of safety in front of the "I-Call" saloon, greeted him affably: "Come a
long way, stranger?" asked Dirty.
"From Wayback," announced the other and paused in interested suspense.
Dirty had become seized with some internal convulsion, which momentarily
threatened disaster to his balance. His feet swung back and forth in
spasmodic jerks, the while his sinful old carcass shook like a man with
the Chagres fever. Finally a strangled wheeze burst from his throat and
explained the crinkle about his eyes: he was laughing.
"Wayback ain't fur," he declared, licking his lips in anticipation of
the kernel of his joke about to come. "You can a'most see it frum here
through the bottom uv--"
"How d' you know it ain't?" the horseman abruptly interrupted.
Dirty was hurt. This was not according to Hoyle. Two more words and no
self-respecting "gent" could refuse to look toward Wayback through a
glass--and certainly not alone. The weather was already too cold to sit
fishing for such fish as this; and here was one who had swallowed the
bait, rejecting the hook.
"Why, stranger, I been there," explained Dirty, in aggrieved
remonstrance.
"How long since you been there? Not since two-at-once, was you? Didn't
it used to be at Drigg's Worry? Didn't it?"
Snow lost his balance. He nodded in open-mouthed silence.
"Course it was--at Drigg's Worry--and now it's way back," and with a
grim chuckle the stranger pressed in his knees and loped on down the
trail to the Sweet-Echo Hotel.
Dirty stared after him. "Who in hell's that?" he asked himself in
profane astonishment. "It 's never Black Jack--too old; an' it ain't
Lucky Jones--too young. He sure said 'two-at-once.' Two-at-once: I
ain't heard that in more 'n twenty years." His air-dried throat
compelled inward attention and he got up from his box and turned and
looked at it. "Used to be at Drigg's Worry, did n't it?" he mimicked.
"Did n't it? An' now it's way back." He kicked the box viciously
against the tavern wall. "D--n yer! This yer blasted town 's gettin'
too smart," and he proceeded to make the only change of base he ever
undertook during the day, by stamping across the bridge to the
"Why-Not."
The door of the I-Call opened and a man appeared. He glanced around
carelessly until he noticed the box, which he viewed with an appearance
of lively interest, coming outside and walking around it at a respectful
distance. "Huh!" he grunted. Having satisfied himself of its condition
he drawlingly announced it for the benefit of those inside. "Dirty 's
busted his chair," he informed, and turned to look curiously after Pop
Snow, who was at that moment slamming the door of the Why-Not behind
him.
Through the open door three other men came out. They all looked at the
box. One of them stopped and turned it over with his thumb. "Kicked
it," he said, and they all looked across at the Why-Not, considering. A
roar from behind them smote upon their ears like a mine blast: "Shut
that door!" With one accord they turned and trooped back again.
The rider meanwhile was talking to his horse as he covered the short
distance to the Sweet-Echo Hotel. "Wonderful climate, Allday. If twenty
years don't wear you down no more 'n old Snow you 'll shore be a grand
horse t' own," and he playfully banged him alongside the neck with his
stirrup. Allday limited his resentment to a flattening of the ears and
the rider shook his head sorrowfully. "Yo 're one good li'l hoss but
yore patience 'd discourage a saint." He swung off the trail to ride
around the building in search of a shelter of some kind, catching sight
of Boomerang just disappearing through the door of the bar-room. "Things
has been a-movin' 'round Twin River since Frenchy an' me went after
Slippery an' his gang: bridges, reg'lar hotels, an' tramps. An' oblige
me by squintin' at th' stable. If Cowan 'd wake up an' find that at th'
back door, he 'd fall dead."
He dismounted and led his horse through the stable door, stopping in
contemplation of the interior. He was plainly surprised. "One, two,
three, four," he counted, "twenty stalls--twenty tie-'em-by-th'-head
stalls--no, there 's a rope behind 'em. Well, I 'm d--d! He ain't
meanin' to build again in fifty years; no, not never!"
Allday went willingly enough into one of the stalls--they were nothing
new to him--and fell to eating with no loss of time. Buck watched him
for a few moments and then, throwing saddle and bridle onto his
shoulder, he walked back the way he had come and into the hotel bar. No
one noticed him as he entered, all, even the bartender, being deeply
intent on watching a game of cards. Buck grunted, dropped his
belongings in a corner, and paused to examine the group. A grand collie
dog, lying near the stove in the middle of the room, got up, came and
sniffed at him, and went back and lay down again.
The game was going on at a table close to the bar, over which the
bartender leaned, standing on some elevation to enable him to draw
closer. Only two men were playing. The one facing Buck was a big man,
in the forties, his brown hair and beard thickly sprinkled with gray;
brown eyes, red-rimmed from dissipation, set wide apart from a big, bold
nose, stared down at the cards squeezed in a big hand. The other man
was of slight build, with black hair, and the motions of his hands,
which Buck had caught as he entered, were those of a gambler: accurate,
assured, easy with a smooth swiftness that baffled the eye. He was
dressed like a cowpunch; he looked like a cow-punch--all but the hands;
these, browned as they were, and dirty, exhibited a suppleness that had
never been injured by hard work. Buck walked up to the bar and a soft
oath escaped him as he caught sight of the thin, brown face, the
straight nose, the out-standing ears, the keen black eyes--Buck's glance
leaped around the circle of on-lookers in the effort to discover how
many of the gambler's friends were with him. He was satisfied that the
man was playing a lone hand. There was a tenseness in the air which
Buck knew well, but from across the hall came a most incongruous sound.
"Piano, by G--d!" breathed Buck in amazement. The intentness on the
game of those in the room explained why he had seen no one about the
place and he was at a loss to account for the indifference of the
musician.
At the big man's left, standing in the corner between the bar and the
wall, was a woman. Her blonde hair and blue eyes set off a face with
some pretensions to beauty, and in point of size she was a fitting mate
for the big man at whom she stared with lowering gaze. Close to her
stood the hobo, and Buck rightly concluded he was a privileged
character. Surrounding the table were several men quite evidently
punchers, two or three who might be miners, and an unmistakable
travelling salesman of that race whose business acumen brings them to
the top though they start at the bottom. Buck had gauged them all in
that one glance. Afterward he watched the gambler's hands and a puzzled
expression gradually appeared on his face; he frowned and moved
uneasily. Was the man playing fair or were his eyes getting old?
Suddenly the frown disappeared and he breathed a sigh of relief: the
motion itself had been invisible but Buck had caught the well-remembered
preliminary flourish; thereafter he studied the faces of the others; the
game had lost interest, even the low voices of the players fell on deaf
ears. His interest quickened as the big man stood up.
"I 'm done," he declared. "That lets me out, Dave. You 've got th'
pile. After to-night I 'll have to pound leather for forty a month and
my keep." He turned to the woman, while an air of relief appeared among
the others at his game acceptance of the loss. "Go on home, Nell. I
won't be up yet a while."
"You won't be up at all," was the level-voiced reply.
"Eh?" he exclaimed, in surprised questioning.
She pushed past him and walked to the door. "You won't be up at all,"
she repeated, facing him. "You 've lost your pile and sent mine after
it in a game you don't play any better than a four-year-old. I warned
you not to play. Now you take the consequences." The door slammed
after her. "Boom" silently opened the door into the hall and vanished.
The big man looked around, dazed. No one met his eye. Dave was sliding
the cards noiselessly through his fingers and the rest appeared
fascinated by the motion. The big man turned to the bartender.
"Slick, gimme a bottle," he demanded. Slick complied without a word and
he bore it in his hand to the table behind the door, where he sat
drinking alone, staring out morosely at the gathering darkness.
Buck dropped into the vacated chair and laid his roll on the table.
"The time to set in at a two-hand game of draw," he remarked with easy
good nature, "is when th' other feller is feelin' all flushed up with
winnin'. If you like to add my pile to that load you got a'ready, I 'm
on." He beamed pleasantly on the surrounding faces and a cynical smile
played for a moment on the thin lips of the man facing him. "Sure," he
agreed, and pushed the cards across the table.
"Bar-keep, set 'em up," said Buck, flicking a bill behind him. Slick
became busy at once and Buck, in a matter-of-fact manner, placed his gun
on the table at his left hand and picked up the pack. "Yes," he went on
with vacuous cheerfulness, "the best man with a full deck I ever saw
told me that. We crossed trails down in Cheyenne. They was shore some
terrors in that li'l town, but he was th' one original." He shook his
head in reminiscent wonder, and raised his glass. "Here 's to a growin'
pile, Bud," and nodding to the others, who responded with indistinct
murmurs, the drink was drained in the customary gulp. "One more,
bar-keep, before we start her," he demanded. "I never drink when I 'm
a-playin'." Here he leaned forward and raised his voice. "Friend, you
over there by th' winder, yo 're not drinkin'."
The big man slowly turned his head and looked at Buck with blood-shot
eyes, then at the extra glass on his table. "Here 's better luck ner
mine, friend--not wishin' you no harm, Dave," and he added the drink to
the generous quantity he had already consumed. Buck waved his hand in
acknowledgment, then he smiled again on his opponent.
"Same game you was playin', Bud?" he asked, genially.
"Suits me," was the laconic reply.
Buck raised the second drink. "Here's to Tex Ewalt, th' man who showed
me th' error of my ways." The tail of his eye was on Dave.
The name of Tex must have shocked him like a bucket of ice water but he
did not betray it by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Ewalt and he
had been friends in the Panhandle and both had escaped the fate of
Trendley and his crowd more by luck than merit. Buck knew Dave's history
in Texas, related by Ewalt himself, who had illustrated the tell-tale
flourish with which Dave introduced a crooked play; but he did not know
that Dave Owens was Black Jack, returned after years of wandering, to
the place of his nativity.[#]
[#] The boy and girl history of David Jones (Black Jack) and his sister,
Veia (called Jill) was well known to some of the old timers who went to
Montana in the first gold rush and stayed there. It was difficult to
get them to tell it and one was sorry to have heard it, if successful.
Buck shuffled the cards slowly and then with a careful exaggeration of
the flourish, dealt the hand in a swift shower of dropping units. A
sigh of appreciation escaped the observant group and this time Buck got
results: at sight of the exaggerated flourish an involuntary contraction
of the muscles hardened the deceptively boyish form and face of the
younger man and the black eyes stared a challenging question at the
smiling gray ones opposite before dropping to the cards he had
unconsciously gathered up.
Luck smiled on Buck from the start. He meant that it should. Always a
good player, his acquaintance with Tex, who had taught him all he knew
of crooked plays, had made him an apt pupil in the school in which his
slippery opponent was a master. With everything coming his way Buck was
quite comfortable. Sooner or later the other would force the fighting.
Time enough to sit up and take notice when the flourishing danger signal
appeared.
It came at last. Dave leaned forward and spoke. "Cheyenne, how'd
jack-pots strike yer? I got ter hit th' trail before six an' it's
pretty nigh time to feed."
"Shore!" assented Buck, heartily.
The pot grew in a manner scandalous to watch. "Double the ante," softly
suggested Dave.
"Shore," agreed Buck, with genial alacrity.
"Double her ag'in."
"Double she is," was Buck's agreeable response.
Pass after pass, and Slick stretched out over the bar and craned his
neck. At last, with a graceful flourish a good hand fell to Buck, a
suspiciously good hand, while Dave's thin lips were twisted into a
one-sided smile. Buck looked at him reproachfully.
"Bud, you should oughter o' knowed better 'n that. I got six cards."
The smile faded from Dave's face and he stared at the cards like a man
who sees ghosts. The stare rose slowly to Buck's face, but no one could
possibly suspect such grieved reproach to be mere duplicity. It was too
ridiculous--only Dave knew quite well that he had not dealt six cards.
"Funny," he said. "Funny how a man 'll make mistakes."
"I forgive you this once, but don't do it no more," and Buck shuffled
the cards, executed a particularly outrageous flourish, and dealt.
"Ha! Ha!" barked Bow-Wow Baker. "D--n if they ain't both makin' th'
same sign. Must belong to th' same lodge."
Chesty Sutton dug him in the ribs with an elbow. "Shut up!" he hissed,
never taking his eyes from the game.
Dave passed and Buck opened. Dave drew three cards to two high ones.
Buck stood pat. Dave scanned his hand; whatever suspicion he might have
had, vanished: he had never seen the man who could deal him a straight
in that fashion. He backed his hand steadily until Buck's assurance and
his own depleted cash made him pause, and he called. Buck solemnly laid
down four aces. Four!--and Dave would have taken his oath the diamond
ace had been on the bottom of the deck before the deal--and Buck had not
drawn cards.
"They 're good," said Dave shortly, dropping his hand into the discard.
"If you 're goin' to stay around here, Cheyenne, I 'll get revenge
to-morrer." He started to rise.
"Nope, I guess not, Bud. I never play yore kind of a game with th' same
man twice."
Dave froze in his position. "Meanin'?" he asked, coldly.
"I don't like th' way you deal," was the frank answer.
"D--n you!" cursed Dave. His hand flew to his gun--and stopped. Over
the edge of the table a forty-five was threatening with steady mouth.
"Don't do it, Bud," warned Buck.
Dave's hand slowly moved forward. "A two-gun man, eh?" he sneered.
"Shore. Never bet on th' gun on th' table, Bud. You got a lot to learn.
Hit her up or you 'll be late--an' down where I came from it's unhealthy
to look through a winder without first makin' a noise."
"Yore argument is good. But I reckon it 'd be a good bet as how you 'll
learn somethin' in Twin River you ain't never learned nowhere else."
Dave sauntered carelessly to the front door.
"You ain't never too old to learn," agreed Buck, sententiously. The
front door closed quietly after Dave and half a minute later his pony's
hoofs were heard pounding along the trail that led toward Big Moose.
"Cheyenne, put her there! I like yore style!" Chesty Sutton, late
puncher for the Circle X, shoved his hand under Buck's nose with
unmistakable friendliness. "_I_ like th' way _you_ play, all right."
"Me, too," chimed in Bow-Wow. "Dave Owens has got th' lickin' of his
life. An' between you an' I, Cheyenne, I ain't never seed Dave get
licked afore--not reg'lar."
The chorus of congratulations that followed was so sincere that Buck's
heart warmed toward the company. Chesty secured attention by pointing
his finger at Buck and wagging it impressively. "But you hear me,
Cheyenne," he warned. "Dave ain't no quitter. He 's got it agin' you
an' he 's h--l on th' shoot. I ain't never heerd of his killin' nobody
but he 's right handy spoilin' yore aim. Ain't he, Bow-Wow?"
"Look a-here. How often have I told you? You sez so. He is. Don't
allus leave it to me." Bow-Wow's tone was indignant as he rubbed his
right arm reflectively.
"Gentlemen, I 'm not sayin' a word against anybody, not one word," and
Slick glanced from man to man, shaking his head to emphasize his perfect
belief in the high standard of morality prevalent in Twin River. "But I
begs leave to remark that _I_ like Cheyenne's game--which it is th'
first time in my brief but eventful career that I seen five dealt cards
turn into six. You all seen it. It sure happened. Mr. Cheyenne, you
have my joyous admiration. Let's celebrate. An' in th' meantime, might
I inquire, without offence, if Cheyenne has a habit of complainin' of
too many cards?"
They had lined up before the bar and all glasses were filled before Buck
answered. Slick stood directly before him and every face, showing
nothing beyond polite interest, was turned his way. But Buck well knew
that on his reply depended his position in the community and the gravity
of the occasion was in his voice when he spoke.
"Gentlemen, Mr. Slick has called. There's two ways of playin'. When I
plays with any gentleman here, I plays one way. Dave Owens played th'
other way. I played his game."
He glanced at the silent figure by the window, set down his glass, and
started to cross the room. Chesty Sutton put out his hand and stopped
him. "I would n't worry him none, Cheyenne. Ned Monroe 's th' best
boss I ever worked for but hard luck has been pilin' up on him higher 'n
th' Rockies since he lost his ranch. Better let him fight it out alone,
friend."
Lost his ranch--Ned Monroe--Buck's intention was doubly strengthened.
"Leave it to me," was his confident assurance, and he strode across the
room and around the table in front of the window. The sombre eyes of
the big man were forced to take notice of him.
"Friend, it's on th' house. Mr. Slick is a right pleasant man, an' he
's waitin'." A rapid glance at the bottle told him that Monroe, in his
complete oblivion, had forgotten it. Ned eyed him with a puzzled frown
while the words slowly illumined his clouded mind. At length he turned
slowly, sensed the situation, and rose heavily to his feet. "Sure," was
the simple reply.
At the bar significant looks were exchanged. "I 'm beginnin' to _like_
Cheyenne," declared Slick, thoughtfully, rubbing the palm of his left
hand against the bar; "which his persuadin' language is fascinatin' to
see."
"It sure is," Chesty Sutton endorsed promptly, while the others about
him nodded their heads in silent assent.
"Well, gentlemen," said Slick, "here 's to th' continued good health of
Mr. Cheyenne." Down the line ran the salutation and Buck laughed as he
replaced his empty glass.
"I shore hope you-all ain't tryin' to scare me none," he insinuated;
"because I 'm aimin' to stop up here an'--who in h--l's poundin' that
pie-anner?" he broke off, turning to glare in the direction of the
melancholy sound.
"Ha! Ha!" barked in his ear, and Buck wheeled as if he had been kicked.
"That's Sandy," explained Bow-Wow Baker. "He thinks he 's some player.
An' he is. There ain't nothin' like it between here an' Salt Lake."
"Oh, yes; there is," contradicted Buck. "You an' him 's a good team. I
bet if you was in th' same room you 'd set up on yore hind laigs an'
howl." Bow-Wow drew back, abashed.
"Set 'em up, Mr. Slick," chuckled the salesman.
"Don't notice him, Cheyenne," advised Chesty in a disgusted aside. "He
don't mean nothin' by it. It's just a habit. It's got so I 'm allus
expectin' him to raise his foot an' scratch for fleas," and he withered
the crestfallen Bow-Wow with a look of scorn.
"You was sayin' as how you was aimin' to stop here," suggested Ned
Monroe, his interest awakened at thought of a rising star so often
following the fall of his own.
"Yes," acknowledged Buck. "If I find--"
Crash! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The noise of the bell was deafening.
Buck set down his glass with extreme care and looked at Slick with an
air of helpless wonder, but Bow-Bow was ready with the explanation.
"Grub-pile!" he shouted, making for the side door, grasping hold of
Chesty's hand as he went out and dragging that exasperated puncher after
him by strength of muscle and purpose. "Come on, Cheyenne! No
'angel-in-th'-pot,' but a good, square meal, all right."
Chesty Sutton cast behind him at Buck a glance of miserable apology,
seized the door-frame in passing, and delivered to Bow-Wow a well-placed
and energetic kick. Relieved of the drag of Chesty's protesting weight
and with the added impetus of the impact of Chesty's foot, Bow-Wow shot
across the wide hall, struggling frantically to regain his equilibrium,
and passed through the door of the dining-room like a quarter-horse with
the blind staggers. The bell-ringing ended in a crash of broken
crockery, succeeded by a fearful uproar of struggling and profanity.
The collie bounded to his feet, his hair bristling along his spine, and
rushed at the door with a low growl. Ned caught him by the collar and
held him. "Down, Bruce, down!" he commanded, and the dog subsided into
menacing growls.
Chesty, at the door, snorted in derision. "D--n fool!" he informed
those behind him. "He 's tryin' to climb th' table. Hey, Ned; let th'
other dog loose," he suggested, hopefully.
By the time the highly entertained group had gathered about the
dining-room door, the oaths and imprecations had resolved themselves
into a steady railing. Bow-Wow sat sprawled in a chair, gazing in awed
silence along the path of wreckage wrought by the flying bell; opposite
him, waving a pair of pugnacious fists in close proximity to Bow-Wow's
face, stood Sandy McQueen, proprietor of the Sweet-Echo. It appeared
that he was angry and the spectators waited with absorbed expectancy on
what would happen next.
"Ye gilravagin' deevil!" he shouted, "canna ye see an inch afore yer ain
nase? Gin ye hae nae better manners na a gyte bull, gang oot to grass
like thae ither cattle. Lord preserv's," he prayed, following the
strained intensity of Bow-Wow's gaze, "look at the cheeny! A 'm
ruined!" He started to gather up the broken crockery when the roar of
laughter, no longer to be restrained, assailed his outraged ears. He
looked sourly at his guests. "Ou, ay, ye maun lauch, but wha's to pay
for the cheeny? Ou, ay! A ken weel eneuch!"
The hilarious company pushed into the dining-room and began to help him
in his task, casting many jocose reproaches on the overburdened Bow-Wow.
Slick returned to the bar-room to clean off the bar before eating, and
Buck went after him. "Hey, what have I struck?" he asked, with much
curiosity. "He sounds worse 'n a circus."
"He 's mad," explained Slick. "Nobody on God's green earth can
understand him when he 's mad. Which a circus is music alongside o'
him. When he 's ca'm, he talks purty good American."
"You shore relieves my mind. What is he--Roosian?"
"Claims to be Scotch. But I dunno--a Scotchman 's a sort of Englishman,
ain't he?"
"That was allus my opinion," agreed Buck.
"Well--I dunno," and Slick shook his head doubtfully as he hung the
towel onto a handy hook and stooped to come under the bar. "Sounds
funny to me, all right. 'Tain't English; not by a h--l of a sight."
"Sounds funny to me," echoed Buck. "I 'm _shore_ it ain't English.
But, say, Slick; gimme a room. I 'm stoppin' here an' I 'd like to drop
my things where I can find 'em."
"Right," said Slick, and he led the way into the hall and toward a
bedroom at the rear. Chesty Sutton stood in the doorway of the
dining-room. "Better git in on th' jump, Cheyenne," he advised,
anxiously. "Bow-Wow 's that savage, he's boltin' his grub in chunks an'
there ain't goin' to be a whole lot left for stragglers."
"Muzzle him," replied Buck, over his saddle-weighted shoulder, while
Slick only grinned, "If I goes hungry, I eats Bow-Wow. Dog ain't so
bad." Chesty chuckled and returned to the sulky Bow-Wow with the
warning.
Despite Chesty's fears, there was plenty to eat and to spare. Little
talking was done, as every one was hungry, with the possible exception
of Ned, and even he would have passed for a hungry man. Sandy McQueen
and the cook officiated and the race was so nearly a dead heat that the
first to finish was hardly across the hall before the last pushed his
chair back from the table.
An immediate adjournment to the bar-room was the customary withdrawal,
and Buck, doing as the others, found Ned in his former seat beside a
table. Buck joined him and showed such an evident desire for privacy
that the others forbore to intrude.
"Ned," said Buck, leaning towards him across the table, "it ain't none
of my business, an' it ain't as I 'm just curious, but was that
straight, what you said about bein' broke?"
"That's straight," Ned assured him, gloomily.
"An' lookin' for a job?" asked Buck, quietly.
"You bet," was the emphatic reply.
"Chesty said as how he used to work for you. Was you foreman?"
"I was foreman an' boss of the NM ranch till them blood-suckers back
East druv me off 'n it--d--n 'em."
"Boss, was you? Then I reckon you wouldn't refuse a job as foreman,
would you?"
Ned's interest became practical. "Where 's yore ranch?" he asked, with
some show of eagerness.
"Why, I was aimin' to stop 'round here some'rs."
"H--l! There ain't a foot o' ground within eighty mile o' where yo 're
sittin' as ain't grazed a heap over, less 'n it's some nester hangin' on
by his fingers an' toes--an' blamed few o' them, neither. Leastaways,
none but th' NM an' Schatz's range, which they says belongs to th' old
Double Y, both of 'em."
"What's keepin' them free?"
"'Bout a regiment o' deputies, I reckon." He smiled grimly. "It's
costin' 'em somethin' to keep th' range free o' cattle. Mebby you could
lease it. That McAllister feller ain't never goin' to get a man to run
it for long. Some o' th' boys is feelin' mighty sore an' Schatz is a
tough nut. It's goin' to be a mighty big job, when he starts, an'
that's certain."
"I 'd like to see it. We 'll go t'morrow."
Buck's careless defiance of the situation pleased Ned. With the first
evidence of good humor he had shown he hit Buck a resounding slap on the
back. "That's you," was his admiring comment.
The door opened to admit the short, broad figure of a man who, after a
glance around the room, made his bow-legged way to their table. His
tone betrayed some anxiety as he asked: "Ned, haf you seen mein Fritz?"
"Nope," answered Ned, "I have n't, Dutch. Hey, boys!" he called,
"Anybody seen Pickles?"
A chorus of denials arose and Chesty sauntered over to get details.
"W'y, you durned ol' Dutch Onion, you ain't gone an' lost him again,
have you?"
"Ach! Dot leetle _Kobold_! Alvays ven I looks, like a flea he iss
someveres else."
"How 'd you lose him?" demanded Chesty.
Dutch stole a look askance at Ned and turned on Chesty a reproachful
face. He laid a glove on the edge of the table. "Dot's Fritz. I turn
'round, like dot," suiting action to word, in a complete turn, his right
hand reaching out, taking up the glove and whirling it behind his back
as he faced the table again. He looked at the empty spot with vast
surprise, in delicious pantomime.
The glove, meanwhile, had fallen against the nose of Bruce, who sniffed
at it and then picked it up and carried it to Slick behind the bar,
returning to his resting place with the air of a duty accomplished.
Dutch continued to stare at the table for several seconds. Then he
glanced around and called: "Fritz! Fritz! _Komm' zu mir_--und Fritz iss
gone," he finished, turning to those at the table an expression of
comical bewilderment. He took a couple of steps in the direction where
he supposed the glove to be. Bruce was just lying down. Dutch looked
more carefully, stooping to see along the floor. A light broke in on
him. He straightened up and excitedly declared: "Yoost like dot! Yoost
like der glove iss Fritz: I know ver he iss bud I can't see him."
"Dutch, come here." Ned's voice was stern and Dutch approached with
hanging countenance. "Where was you when you 'turn 'round like dot'?"
asked Ned.
"Only a minute, Ned; yoost a minute!"
"Where?"
"In Ike's I vas; yoost a minute."
"Ain't I told you to keep out o' there?"
Dutch moved his feet, licked his lips, and cleared his throat; words
seemed to fail him.
While he hesitated the door opened again, something more than six
inches, and Boomerang squeezed through. He shuffled up to Dutch and
touched him on the shoulder. "Hey, Dutch, I been chasin' you all over.
Pickles went home wit' Little Nell, see? An' she sent me ter tell you."
"Vat! mit dot--" he broke off and turned to Ned. "I begs your pardon,
but Fritz, he iss leetle--he learn quick. Right avay I go." He was at
the door when Slick hailed him.
"Hey, Dutchy, this yourn?" The other caught the tossed glove, and
nodded.
"Yah, first der glove, soon iss Fritz," and the door closed behind him.
"Good as a circus," laughingly declared Buck. "About pay now--how would
eighty a month hit you, for a starter?"
"Fine," declared Ned.
"Then here she is, first month," and Buck handed it over. "Will that be
enough to square up what you owe?" he added.
"W'y, I don't owe nothin'," declared Ned.
"Well--now--I was just a-thinkin' 'bout th' lady as seemed right vexed
when you dropped yore roll to Dave." He looked casually at Slick,
behind the bar, while he was saying it.
"Little Nell? I don't owe her nothin', neither. It was my pile,--all
of it."
Buck heaved a sigh of relief. "I 'm right glad to hear it. Then you
'll be all ready to hit th' trail with me in th' mornin'?" he asked.
"Shore; but s'pos'n you can't get th' ranch?" suggested Ned.
"I 'll get it. An' when I get it I 'll run it, too, less'n they load me
with lead too heavy to sit a horse--then you 'll run it." His smile was
infectious.
"Cheyenne, I like yore style. Put 'er there," and he shoved a huge,
hairy fist at Buck. "'Nother thing," he went on, "Chesty an' Bow-Wow
was a-goin' over to th' Bitter Root. I 'll tell 'em to hang 'round for
a spell. Them 's two good boys. So 's Dutchy--when he ain't a-runnin'
after Pickles."
"All right; you talk to 'em. See you in th' mornin'," and with a
general good-night, Buck went to his room.
Chesty and Bow-Wow joined Ned to have a "night cap" and say good-bye,
intending to start early next morning. "No, boys, I 've had enough,"
said Ned. "I 've took a job with Cheyenne, an' you boys better hang
'round. Find Dutch in th' mornin' an' tell him. An' I 'm a-goin' to
turn in, too. I 'm cussed sleepy." The other two sat staring across
the table at one another. The news seemed too good to be true.
"Ha! Ha!" barked Bow-Wow, "I never did like them d--n Bitters, not
nohow."
Chesty nodded his head. "Me, too," he agreed. "Son, there 's a big time
due in these parts: I feel it in my bones."
Seized with a common impulse they sprang to their feet and began a
war-dance around the stove, chanting some Indian gibberish that was a
series of grunts, snarls, and yells. Their profane demands for
information meeting with no response, the others one by one joined them,
until a howling, bobbing ring of men circled the stove, and, growling
and barking at their heels, the dog danced with them. Slick looked on
with an indulgent grin and the row did not cease until Sandy stuck his
head in at the hall door. "Deil tak' ye!" he shouted. "Canna ye let a
body sleep?"
A minute later the room had settled down into its customary decorum and
Bruce, with a wary look about, now and then, was preparing to resume his
rudely interrupted doze.
CHAPTER IV
THE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE Y
Buck cinched up his saddle on Allday and led him out of the stable.
"Ned, this is shore one scrumptious hotel," he observed as he swung into
his seat.
"It certainly is. Nothin' to beat it in Montany, I reckon," was Ned's
hearty endorsement.
Buck shook his head as they passed through the gate together. "Most too
good," he suggested.
"I dunno," Ned doubted, "th' branch from Wayback 's shore to come down
th' Jones' Luck, an' then Sandy 'll rake in."
They had just turned into the trail when a rider passed them at speed,
causing Ned's cayuse to shy and buck half way to the Jill. The
evener-tempered Allday only pointed his ears and pulled on the bit.
"Reckon you could catch that feller, eh? Well, you could n't," was
Buck's careless insult. "If Hoppy could see that horse he 'd give all
he 's got for him--bar Mary."
The horse merited his criticism. A powerful black, well over fifteen
hands, he showed the sloping thigh bones and shoulder of a born
galloper, while the deep chest gave promise of long-sustained effort.
His rider had pulled up at the general store just beyond the hotel and
Ned joining him, Buck expressed his admiration. A moment later he added
to it: "By th' Lord, Ned, that 's a woman." The rider had dropped from
the saddle and paused to wave her hand to Ned before she entered the
store. Buck caught the glance from a pair of beautiful dark eyes that
rested on him a moment before it fleeted past to his companion. The
grave smile was well suited to the wonderfully regular features and when
she turned and entered the store it was with the swinging step of
perfect movement. Buck faced about with a jerk when he realized that he
had actually turned in his saddle to gaze after her.
"Best horse in these parts an' th' finest woman," agreed Ned, "an'
honest," he added, gruffly.
Buck stared at him, surprised. "Why, o' course! Anybody says
different?" He unconsciously stiffened at the thought.
"Um--no, not as I knows of. Her daddy 's a nester; got a
quarter-section 'tother side o' Twin River, off th' trail a piece. Rosa
LaFrance--pretty name, ain't it? Th' boys calls her the French Rose."
"Yes, 'tis pretty," drawled Buck. "What I'm askin' about is this
recommendation o' character to me."
It was Ned's turn to feel surprised. He pondered as he looked at Buck.
"I reckon I warn't exactly speakin' to you, Cheyenne," he explained;
"more to myself, like. You see, it's this way: Dave Owens, he won that
horse from McReady of the Cyclone, one night in Wayback. I was n't
there but I hears it's a regular clean up. McReady was in a streak o'
bad luck and would a' lost ranch an' all but his friends hocussed his
liquor an' Mac, he drops out of his chair like somebody hit him with an
axe. Next day Rose rides into Twin River on that same horse. John,
that's her daddy, he never bought him; he could n't. Then how did she
come by it? That's her business, I says. That's one thing. For
another, Dave Owens travels that way considerable, an' Dave ain't no
company for the French Rose. I 'm too old to interfere or I durn soon
would."
Buck brooded on this situation for some time and then burst into a
laugh. Ned eyed him with stern disapproval. "I was thinkin' of a
cow-punch I know," explained Buck, in apology. "He 'd interfere so
quick, there would n't be time to notify th' mourners."
Ned smiled in sympathy. "That 'd do," he admitted, "but you can't jump
in an' shoot up a fellow if a girl's sweet on him, can you? It 'd be
just nacheraly foolish."
"That 's so," agreed Buck, "but if the French Rose can look at that son
of a thief and like him, then Hopalong Cassidy has no call to be proud
o' _his_self."
"Eh?" questioned Ned.
"Th' name slipped out. But now 's as good a time as any to tell you.
Did you ever hear o' Frenchy McAllister?"
"Owner o' the Double Y?"
"Half owner--leastways, he was. Frenchy 's dead. You was cussin' his
brother last night. I want to tell you about Frenchy."
Buck told the story in terse, graphic sentences, every one a vivid
picture. He painted the scene of Trendley's crime to the accompaniment
of a low-voiced growl of lurid profanity from Ned, who was quite
unconscious of it. The relentless hunt for the criminals, extending
through many months; the deadly retribution as one by one they were
found; the baffling elusiveness of Slippery Trendley and the unknown
manner of his fate when run to earth at last--one scene followed another
until Buck left the arch devil in his story, as he had left him in fact,
bound and helpless, looking up at the pitiless face of the man he had
injured beyond the hope of pardon, their only witnesses the silent
growths of Texas chaparral and the grieving eye of God.
It was a terrible story, even in the mere telling of it. Buck's level
voice and expressionless face hid the seething rage which filled him
now, as always, when his thoughts dwelt upon the awful drama. Ned's
judgment was without restriction: "By the Eternal!" he swore, "that
h--l-hound deserved whatever he got. D--d if you ain't made me sick."
They rode in silence for several minutes and then: "Poor fellow! poor
fellow!" he lamented. "Did you say he's dead?"
"Yes, Frenchy's gone under," answered Buck gravely. "You 'd 'a' liked
him, Ned."
"Yes, I reckon I would," agreed Ned. He looked at the other,
considering. "Where do you come in?" he asked. Buck's narrative had
failed to connect the new-born "Cheyenne" as "Frenchy's pardner."
"I 'm Buck Peters," was the simple explanation.
Ned pulled his horse back onto its haunches and Buck wheeled and faced
him. So they sat, staring, Ned inarticulate in his astonishment, Buck
waiting. The power of coherent thought returned to Ned at last and he
rode forward with outstretched hand. "Th' man as stuck to Frenchy
McAllister through that deal is good enough for me to tie up to," he
declared, and the grip of their hands was the cementing of an unfailing
friendship. "An' I 'd like for Buck Peters to tell Frenchy's brother as
I takes back what I said agin' him."
Their way led through an excellent grass country. The comparatively low
ground surrounding Wayback rose gradually to Twin River and more rapidly
after leaving that town. The undulating ground now formed in higher and
more extensive mounds, rising in places to respectable-sized hills;
usually the sides reached in long slopes the intervening depressions,
but not infrequently they were abrupt and occasionally one was met which
presented the broad, flat face of a bluff. The air was perceptibly
colder but the bunch grass, hiding its wonderfully nourishing qualities
under the hue it had acquired from the hot summer sun, was capable of
fattening more cattle to the acre than any but the best lands of the
Texan ranges with which Buck was familiar. Snow had not yet swept down
over the country, though apt to come with a rush at any time. Even
winter affected the range but little as a general rule; disastrous years
were luckily few and far separated, so that the average of loss from
severity of weather was small. The talk of the two naturally veered to
this and kindred topics and Buck began stowing away nuggets of northern
range wisdom as they fell from the lips of the more experienced Ned.
Studying the trail ahead of him, Buck broke the first silence by asking:
"Ain't we near the boundary of the Double Y?"
"You 'll know, soon enough. Th' first big butte we come to, some cuss
'll be settin' there, hatchin' out trouble."
"That's him, then," and Buck pointed to the right where a solitary
horseman showed dark against the sky-line.
"Yep, that's one of 'em. Reglar garjun, ain't he?"
"Beats me how you let 'em stand you off, Ned," wondered Buck.
"Well, when we made good and sure you owned the range, Buck, there were
n't no use in fighting. That McAllister would 'a run in th' reglar army
next, d--d if he would n't."
Buck chuckled. "He 's sure a hard man to beat. I don't mind fighting
when I have to, but I 'm mighty glad it looks peaceful."
"We 'll have fightin'. When I was turned off my ranch, it just about
foundered me. I sold th' stock, every head, an' you saw where th' last
o' th' cash went. But don't forget Smiler Schatz. He 's a bigger man
an' a better man nor I ever was, an' he 's a-layin' low an' a-waitin'.
He calculates to get you--I dunno how."
"An' I dunno how," mused Buck. "Say, Ned, I thought th' stage line ran
through to Big Moose: there ain't no tracks?"
"'Cause it crosses th' ford at th' Jack an' goes to th' Fort; then it
swings round to Big Moose, an' back th' same road. Wonder who 's that
pointin' this way?"
Buck glanced ahead to see a moving speck disappear behind a knoll far
along the trail. "Dunno; maybe another deputy," he suggested.
The distant rider came into sight again and Ned stared steadily at him.
"No," he declared, "think I know that figger. Yessir! It's Smiler. I
kin tell him 'most as far as I kin see him."
"That's the feller gave us the fight, ain't it?"
"Did his share--some over, mebbe. He 's a hard nut."
"Well, I 'm not bad at a pinch, myself, Ned; mebbe I can crack him."
Ned smiled grimly at the jest and hoped he would be cracked good.
Evidently there was no great liking between the quondam owners of the
Double Y.
However, this was not apparent in their greeting. The steady approach
had been uninterrupted and Buck looked with interest at the "hard nut"
as they met.
In a land of dirty men--dirty far more frequently from necessity than
from choice--Schatz was a by-word for slovenliness nearly approaching
filth. If he washed at all it left no impression on the caked
corrugations of his smiling countenance. His habit of smiling was
constant, so much a part of him that it gave him his name. And it had
been solemnly affirmed by one of his men that he never interfered with
his face until the dirt interfered with his smile; then he chipped it
off with a cold chisel and hammer. This must have been slander: no one
had ever seen him when it looked chipped. A big man, with a fine head,
he sat in his saddle with the careless ease of long practice. "Hello,
Ned!" he called, with a gay wave of the hand. "_Wie geht's_?"
"Howdy, Karl!" replied Ned. "How's sheep?"
"Ach! don't say it, der grasshoppers. Never vill dey reach Big Moose.
Also, I send East a good man to talk mit dat McAllister to lease der
range yet. Before now he say a manager come from Texas, soon. Vat iss
Texas like Montana? Nodding. Ven der snow come--"
"Hol' on! This is th' manager, Mr. Buck Peters, half owner o' the
Double Y, an' he 's put me in as foreman."
"So--it pleases me greatly, Mr. Buck. Ned iss a good man. If you haf
Ned, that iss different." He shook hands with Buck who took note of the
blue eyes and frank smile of the blonde German, at a loss to discover
where he hid that hardness Ned had referred to.
"Sorry I can't offer you a job," said Buck, matching the other's smile
at the joke, "but from what I hear, one foreman will be a-plenty on the
Double Y."
"It iss a good range--eggselent--und der iss mooch free grass ven you
haf der Double Vy for der hard years; but dere iss not enough for you
und for me, too, so I turn farmer. Also some of der boys, dey turn
farmer. I take oud quarter-section alretty."
"Quarter-section! Turn farmer! You! Sufferin' cows! give me a drink,"
and Ned looked wildly around for the unattainable.
"_Donnerwetter_! Somet'ing I must do. To lend money iss good but not
enough. Also my train vill not vait. So I say good-morning und vish
you luck."
Ned wheeled his horse to gaze after the departing figure and Buck sat
laughing at his expression. "Luck," echoed Ned; "bad luck, you mean, you
grinnin' Dutchman. H--l of a farmer you 'll be. Now I wonder what's
his little game."
"Aw, come on, Ned. 'Pears to me he 's easy," and Allday sprang away
along the trail.
"Easy, eh!" growled Ned, when he caught up, "he 's this easy: him and me
started even up here, 'bout th' same time. 'T was n't long before he
begun crowdin' me. Neither of us had nuthin' at first but when we quit
he could show five cows to my one. How 'd he do it?"
"Borrowed th' money and bought yearlin's," answered Buck.
"Yes, he did," Ned grudgingly admitted. "But I kep' a-watchin' him an'
he allus branded more than th' natural increase, every round-up--an' I
could never see how he done it."
"You--don't--say," was Buck's thoughtful comment, "Well, down our way
when a man gets to doin' miracles on a free range we drops in on him
casual an' asks questions--they don't do it twice"; and he unconsciously
increased Allday's pace.
"Here, pull up," urged Ned; "this bronc 's beginnin' to blow. That's a
bang-up horse you 've got there. No good with cattle, is he?"
"No," agreed Buck. "I got this horse because 'discretion is sometimes
better than valler,' as Tex Ewalt said when somebody asked him why he
did n't shoot Hoppy. Most times I finish what I start, but once in a
while, on a big job, it's healthy to take a vacation. An' I naturally
expected to leave some hasty an' travel fast."
"Ain't nothin' could catch you, in these parts, not if you got a good
start, less'n it's French Rose an' Swallow."
"Well, I was n't aimin' to run far nor yet to stay long. That seems
like it 'd be th' ranch."
"That's her," agreed Ned.
The ranch house, rectangular and of much greater dimensions than Buck
expected to find it, presented two novel features, one of which he
noticed at once. "What's th' idea of a slopin' roof, Ned?" he asked.
"That's Karl's notion. See that upside down trough runs along th' high
part at th' back? There ain't a foot o' that roof you can't slosh with
a bucket o' water. An' you can shoot along th' walls from them cubby
holes built out at each corner. Th' house is a heap bigger 'n th' old
one was; it used to set over yonder in that valley, but th' wipin' out
o' Custer put th' fear o' God in Smiler an' he raised this place soon
after. Five men could stand off five hundred Injuns."
"Where 's th' water?"
Ned chuckled. "Wait till you see it. There 's a well sunk at th' side
an' you can pull it in without goin' out-door if you wants to. Karl is
one o' them think-of-everything fellers. He put th' ranch house on a
knoll an' th' bunk-house on another. Then, he figgers, if they wants to
rush me they 'll be good an' winded when they gets here. My shack is a
pig-pen 'long side o' this un', but I got it figgered out I need n't to
stop if I don't want."
"How's that, Ned?"
"I could cut an' run any time--come night. I 'll show you when we goes
over there."
Bare as was the interior, the ranch house gave promise of comfort and
the bunk-house and the stable with its adjacent corral proved equally
satisfactory. The fire-place of the bunk-house was built over the bare
earth and there they repaired to make a fire and eat the food they had
brought with them. The added warmth was a distinct comfort but the
smoke brought company on the run. They had scarcely begun their meal
when a faint sound led Buck to saunter to the door and look out. Down
the steep side of a high butte dropped a horseman with considerably more
speed and no more care than a dislodged boulder; arriving at the bottom,
his horse straightened out into a run that showed he was expected to get
somewhere right away. Buck gravely bit into a sandwich the while he
admired the rider's horsemanship; an admiration that was directed into
another channel when the object of it slipped rifle from holster, pumped
a cartridge into the barrel, and threw it forward in business-like
attitude. "'Spects to have use for it, right soon," mused Buck, and
then, over his shoulder: "Better hide, Ned. Here comes a garjun an' he
's got his gun out."
"Th' h--l he has!" rumbled Ned. "Come an' push me up th' chimley, Buck;
I 'm a-scared."
Buck strolled back to the fire and half a minute later the horse pounded
up to the house, his rider sprang off and came through the door, gun
first. He continued across the room with solemn countenance, set his
gun against the wall, and went to the fire where he extended his hands
to the blaze. "Howdy, Ned; howdy, stranger," was his easy greeting.
Ned, sitting cross-legged, smirked up at him. "Howdy, Jack. You were
n't going to run me off'n th' range, was you?"
"Nope. Saw Cheyenne Charley headin' this way 'bout an hour since.
Thought mebbe he 'd burn her up--Pipes o' peace!" His eyes widened as
he gazed at Ned's upturned mouth. "Bottled beer, or I 'm a Injun. You
lives high," and he swallowed involuntarily as the inspiring gurgle
stimulated his salivary glands.
"I 'm taperin' off on beer," explained Ned. "Got three bottles, one for
Buck and two for me. I 'm biggest. But you can have one o' mine.
Buck, this is Jim's Jack, head garjun an' a right good sort. Buck
Peters has come to take charge of his own ranch, Jack."
"Shake," said Jack. He glanced over the papers Buck handed him and
passed them back. All three turned to look at the open door.
"Hang up a sign, Buck," advised Ned. "If we stops here long enough we
can start a hotel. Come in, Charley."
The Indian stepped slowly in. "Cheyenne Charley, Buck," said Ned; "off
the Reservation for a drunk at Twin River. You 'd think he 'd stop in
Big Moose. Reckon he 's hungry, too; he--" Ned paused and his eyes
sought the object of Charley's steady and significant gaze. "Oh, that
be d--d!" he exclaimed, swooping onto the third bottle of beer beside
him and holding it out to Buck. "He wants your beer. Charley is a good
Injun--I _think_--but 'lead us not into temptation'"--and with the other
hand he proceeded to put his share of temptation out of sight, an
example that Jim's Jack emulated with dignified speed.
"Let him have it," said Buck, good naturedly. "I never hankered much
for beer, nohow." He passed the bottle to the Indian, not in the least
suspecting what "an anchor he had cast to windward." The other two
exchanged a look of regretful disapproval.
Half an hour later they had separated, Buck and Ned going on to the more
distant NM ranch, Jack to gather up his fellow deputies, and the
Cheyenne hitting the trail for Twin River with a thirst largely
augmented by the sop he had thrown to it.
CHAPTER V
"COMIN' THIRTY" HAS NOTIONS
Up from the south, keeping Spring with him all the way, rode Tex. The
stain of the smoke-grimed cities was washed out of him in the pure air;
day by day his muscles toughened and limbered, his lightning nerves
regained their old spontaneity of action, each special sense vied with
the others in the perfection of service rendered, and gradually but
surely his pulse slowed until, in another man, its infrequency of beat
would have been abnormal. When he rode into Twin River, toward the end
of a glorious day, he had become as tireless as the wiry pony beneath
him, whose daily toll of miles since leaving the far-off Bar-20 was well
nigh unbelievable.
Tex crossed the ford of the Black Jack behind the Sweet-Echo Hotel.
Dirt had bespattered him from every angle; it was caked to mud on his
boots, lay in broad patches along his thighs, displayed itself lavishly
upon his blue flannel shirt, and had taken frequent and successful aim
at his face; but two slits of sun-lit sky seemed peering out from
beneath his lowered lids, the pine-tree sap bore less vitality than
surged in his pulsing arteries, his lounging seat was the deceptive
sloth of the panther, ready on the instant to spring; and over all, cool
as the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies, ruled the calculating
intelligence, unscrupulous in the determination to win, now that it was
on the side of the right, as when formerly it fought against it.
One glance at the imposing Sweet-Echo and Tex turned his pony's head
toward the trail. "No, no, Son John, you 'll not sleep there with your
stockings on--though I shan't ask you to go much farther," Tex assured
him. "I 've seen prettier, and ridden cleverer, but none more willing
than you, Son John. Ah, this begins to look more like our style.
'I-Call'--sweet gamester, I prithee call some other day; I would feed,
not play. 'Ike's'--thy name savors overly much of the Alkali, brother.
Ha! 'By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked that way bums.'"
He had turned to cross the Jill and saw Pop Snow basking in the failing
sunlight. "'Why-Not'--well, why not? I will."
"Come a long way, stranger?" asked Dirty, his gaze wandering over the
tell-tale mud. He had come the wrong way for profit, but Dirty always
asked, on principle: he hated to get out of practice.
Tex swung his right leg over his pony's neck and sat sideways, looking
indolently at the pickled specimen who sat as indolently regarding him.
"Plucked from a branch of the Mussel Shell," murmured Tex, "when Time
was young"; and then drawled: "Tolerable, tolerable; been a-comin'
thirty year, just about."
Dirty looked at him with frank disgust, spat carefully, and turning on
his seat no more than was absolutely necessary, stuck his head in at the
open door and yelled: "Hey, boys! Come on out an' meet Mr. Comin'
Thirty. Comin' is some bashful 'bout drinkin' with strangers, so get
acquaint."
Scenting a tenderfoot half a dozen of the inmates strolled outside.
When they saw the sun-tanned Tex they expressed their opinion of Dirty
in concise and vitriolic language, not forgetting his parents; after
which they invited Tex to "sluice his gills." One of them, a
delicate-featured, smooth-faced boy, added facetiously: "Don't be
afraid; we won't eat you."
Tex released his left foot from the stirrup and slid to earth. "I was
n't afraid o' bein' et, exactly," was his slow response; "I was just
a-wonderin' if it would bite. I notice it 's slipped its collar."
"Go to h--l! Th' lot o' you!" screeched Pop, bouncing to his feet with
surprising alacrity. "Wait till I buy th' nex' one o' you a
drink--wait! That's all."
"Lord, Dirty, we _has_ been a-waitin'. Since Fall round-up, ain't it?"
appealing to the others who gave instant, vigorous, and profane
endorsement.
"Pah!" exploded Pop. He faced about and executed a singular and
superlatively indecent gesture with a nimbleness unexpected and
disgracefully grotesque in so old a man; and then without a backward
glance, he stamped off across the bridge to the I-Call. The others
watched him in fascinated silence until he plumped down on his
inevitable box, when the smooth-faced first speaker turned to his
nearest neighbor and asked in hushed tones: "What do you think of him,
Mike?"
"Fanny, me boy, if I thought I 'd ever conthract Dirty's partic'lar
brand o' sinfulness, I 'd punch a hole in th' river--with me head," and
he solemnly led the way in to the bar.
"Gentlemen, it's on me," declared Tex, "--for good and special reasons,"
he explained, when they began to expostulate. "Give me a large and
generous glass," he requested of the barkeeper, "and fill it with 'Water
for me, water for me, and whiskey for them which find it agree.' You
see, gentlemen, liquor an' I don't team no better 'n a lamb an' a
coyote. I must either love it or leave it alone an' I 'm dead set agin'
spiritual marriage. Here 's how."
"If I 'd begun like that I 'd be a rich man this day," observed Mike,
when his head resumed the perpendicular.
"If I 'd begun like that I would n't be here at all," responded Tex.
"Well, ye 'll have a cigar with me, anyhow. Putt a name to it, boys,
an', Fred, whisper: Pass up that wee little box ye keep, in th' locker.
Me friend, Comin', will take a good one, while he 's at it."
A blue-shirted miner next him interposed: "'T is my trate. He 'll hev a
cigar with me, he well. Das' thee thenk I be goin' to drenk with thee
arl the time, and thee never taake a drenk 'long o' me? Set un up,
Fred, my son, and doan't forget the lettle box."
Tex gazed curiously at the speaker. It was his first meeting with a
Cornishman and Bill Tregloan was a character in more than speech.
Wherever gold, or a rumor of gold, drew the feet of miner, there sooner
or later would be Bill Tregloan. He had crossed the continent to
California on foot and alone at a time when such an attempt was more
than dangerous. That he escaped the natural perils of the trip was
sufficiently wonderful; as for the Indians, there is no doubt they
thought him mad.
Bill had his way in paying for the order and turned to lounge against
the bar when his eye caught sight of that which drew from him a torrent
of sputtering oaths and a harsh command. The only one who had failed to
join the others at the bar was Charley, the Cheyenne Indian. He lay
sprawled on the floor against the opposite wall, very drunk and asleep,
and about to be subjected to one of the pleasing jokes of the railroad
towns, in this instance very crudely prepared. The oil with which he
was soaked, had been furnished far too plentifully, and he stood an
excellent chance of being well roasted when the match, then burning,
should be applied.
The man holding the match looked up at the Cornishman's shout. He did
not understand the words but the meaning of the action that followed was
plain; and when the miner, growling like a bear, started to rush at him,
his hand dropped to his gun with the speed of a hawk. Fanny promptly
stuck out his foot. Tregloan went down with Fanny on top of him but it
takes more than one slight boy, whatever his strength, to hold down a
wrestling Cornishman. The flurry that followed, even with the added
weight of numbers, would have been funny but for the scowling face of
the olive-skinned man who stood with ready gun until assured the
struggle had gone against his opponent. Then he slipped gun in holster
and felt for another match. "Take him away," he said, with a sneering
smile, "he make me sick."
"What did they do that for?" asked Tex of Mike. Neither had moved during
the excitement. The rest were pushing and pulling Tregloan out of the
saloon.
"That's Guinea Mike," was the explanation. "He 'd murder his mother if
she crossed him. First fair chanst I mane to break his d--d back--an'
if ye tell him so he 'll kill me on sight."
"Interestin' specimen," observed Tex. Guinea Mike found another match
and calmly lit it. Those not engaged in soothing Bill were looking in
at the door and windows. Dutch Fred, behind the bar, was swearing good
American oaths regarding the unjustified waste of his kerosene. Tex
stepped away from the bar. "Blow that out," he said, dispassionately.
Guinea Mike looked up with a snarl. The two stares met and grappled.
Guinea slowly raised the match to his lips and puffed it out, flipping
it from him with a snap of one finger so that it fell almost at the feet
of Tex. They watched each other steadily. A solitary snore from the
Indian sounded like the rumble of overhead thunder. Slowly the hand of
Guinea descended from before his lips and in unison with it descended
the head of Fred until his eyes just cleared the top of the bar.
Guinea's hand rested in the sagging waist of his trousers, a second,
two--
The roar of the explosion was deafening. Guinea Mike's right shoulder
went into retirement and his gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.
Screaming with rage he stooped to grasp it with his left hand and
pitched forward at full length, both knee-caps shattered, at the mercy
of this stranger who shot as if at a mark.
The noise awakened Cheyenne Charley who opened his eyes and smiled
foolishly at the distorted face which had so unexpectedly reached his
level. "D--n drunk," he observed, and immediately went to sleep again.
Tex walked over and kicked the gun across the floor. Irish Mike picked
it up and handed it to Fred. "I could a' killed you just as easy as I
didn't, Guinea," said Tex. "I don't like you an' yore ways. It's just
a notion. So don't you stop. An' don't send any o' yore friends. 'No
Guineas need apply.' That goes, if I has to Garibaldi yore whole d--n
country."
The spectators had filed back to the room and were engaged in audible
comments on the justification and accuracy of the shooting, while they
busied themselves in the rough surgery which had to serve. To the
suggestion that he ought to be taken to the doctor at Wayback, Fred
interposed the objection: "No, dake him to Nell's. Mike is a friend mit
her."
Pop Snow, attracted by the excitement, stood peering in a window. Twin
River crowded the room but Pop's resentment was still warm. A man rode
up and stooped from the saddle to look over his shoulder. "Who 's that?
What's up?" he asked.
"'T aint nothin'; _only_ Guinea Mike. See th' feller Fanny 's hangin'
onto? Well, that's him: Comin' Thirty has notions--an' I ain't never
seen better shootin'."
Dave swung down, tied his pony to the rail and went inside to see the
new bad-man of Twin River. It had been growing steadily colder during
the past few hours; the wind, sweeping in from the west, held a sinister
threat, the air a definite chill, and Dave felt he would be none the
worse for a little fire-water. Dirty felt it also, but his senile
annoyance had merely simmered down, not subsided, and he scurried back
to the I-Call for cover until such time as he thought it fitting to go
home.
* * * * *
It was very late when Dave turned a tired pony to pasture and entered
the three-room cabin of Karl Schatz. The rough exterior gave no
indication of the comfort with which the German had surrounded himself.
Fur rugs covered the floor of the living-room; the chairs and table had
travelled many miles before landing here; a fine sideboard showed
several pieces of fair china; mounted horns of various kinds were on the
walls, one group being utilized as a gun rack, and between them hung
several good paintings. A stove had been removed but in its place
smouldered a wood fire, the fireplace jutting out from the wall. When
Dave came in Karl sat smoking; on the table beside him lay an open
volume of poems. "Vell?" he asked, as Dave dropped into a chair and
stretched his legs wearily before him.
"Double Y has got a new bunch o' cattle. Hummers. Bought 'em out of a
drove come up last Fall on Government contract; the Government went back
on th' deal an' they was wintered up here. Got th' pick o' th' lot, I
hear." Dave fell into silence and stared at the fire. Karl puffed
thoughtfully while he looked at the black head whose schemes seemed
coming to nought.
"Cameron 's got back," continued Dave; "he 's brought his money with
him; took up his note at the bank; paid full interest." Another pause,
with no comment from Karl. Dave continued to display his items of
information in sections. "I met One-eye Harris at Eccles'.
"Th' Cyclone ranch has got some with th' itch. It 'll mean a lot o'
work--an' then some.
"LaFrance wants to bleed you for two hundred. Don't you. He 'll get too
rich to have me for a son-in-law."
Karl nodded his head. "Farming iss goot," he murmured, "--mit vasser."
Dave glanced at him.
"Them new steers o' th' Double Y oughta fetch forty in th' Fall. Will,
too."
"Farming iss goot," repeated Karl, "--mit vasser. Also, to lend money.
But Camerons, dey pay und der money lies idle. Ven do ve eat up der
Double Y, Dave?"
Dave glanced at him sullenly. "Why don't you let me kill that d--n
Peters? Are you afraid I 'll get hurt?"
"Alvays I fear. I haf no one bud you, _du Spitzbub_. But kill him?
Ach! Soon anoder manager come. Killing iss not goot, Dave. You must
plan besser, _aber_ I do id. Dat make you feel sheep, _du Schwarzer
Spitzbub, vas?_"
"I 'll get 'em. Guinea Mike 's shot up."
"Vell, he iss anoder von likes killing. Who vas id?"
"Stranger. Reminded me of a feller, somehow--an' then, again, he did
n't. Deals a slick hand at cards."
"Ach, cards! Alvays der cards! Who know dem besser as me? Who pay for
dem so much? Cards und killing, dey are no goot."
"Well, let's roost," suggested Dave, and led the way to the inner room.
Karl fastened doors and windows, put out the light, and followed him.
CHAPTER VI
AN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUE
How to do it? That was the question that hammered incessantly at Dave's
brain until he actually dreamed of it. Dreaming of it was the only
satisfactory solution, for in his dreams matters arranged themselves
with the least possible effort on his part and with little or no
danger--though, to do him justice, danger was the consideration which
had the least weight. But the dreams presented lamentable gaps which
Dave, in his waking moments, found it impossible to bridge. Winter had
given way to Spring and Buck Peters, aided by the indefatigable Ned, was
rounding the ranch into a shape that already cut a figure in the county
and would do so in the Territory before long.
The Double Y owed nothing to Dave. His animosity was confined strictly
to Buck; but he knew that Karl was resolved to usurp ownership of the
range he had come to look upon as his own. And Dave had become imbued
with the idea that his own interests demanded the realization of Karl's
wishes.
Why the German had become interested in this handsome idler, so many
years younger than himself, Karl could not have explained. True, he was
alone in the world, he was a red fox where the other was a black one,
while Dave's present sinfulness and inclinations were such as the elder
man understood and sympathized with. Yet these were hardly reasons;
Karl himself never would have advanced them as such. Perhaps he had it
in mind to use him as a cat's-paw. Few of our likes or dislikes have
their origin in a single root.
If only they could "eat up" the Double Y! Dave cursed the obsession
which threatened his fortunes; he cursed the energetic Buck who was
rearing obstacles in his way with every week that passed; and he cursed
his own barren imagination which balked at the riddle.
No heat of the inward furnace showed in the cool gravity of his face.
Sitting at a table in the crowded bar-room of the Sweet-Echo, he seemed
intent on mastering the difficulties of a particularly intricate game of
solitaire. From time to time some of those at the same table would
become interested, only to turn away again, baffled by their lack of
knowledge.
The usual class of patrons was present, augmented in number, since the
spring round-up was at hand and strangers were dropping in every day.
Later in the evening, most of those present would gravitate to the lower
end of the town where forms of amusement which Sandy McQueen did not
countenance, were common. To none of these did Dave give any attention,
though he looked with interest at Tex Ewalt when he entered; the
increased hum of voices and several loud greetings had taken his mind
momentarily from his thoughts. Tex's reputation had lost nothing in
force since the excitement of his advent.
Suddenly and for the first time Dave hesitated in his play. He looked
fixedly at the Jack of Spades and removed it from the pile where it lay.
He paused with it in his hand. The Jack of Spades was in doubt--so was
Dave.
A querulous voice was damning Buck Peters. "_Donner und Blitzen_! Vas
it my fault _der verruchter_ bull break loose _und ist hinaus gegangen_?
'_Yah!_' says Buck, '_Yah!_' loud, like dat. Mad?--_mein gracious_! Vot
for is a bull, anyhow? 'Gimme my time,' I say; 'I go.' 'Gif you a goot
kick,' says Buck; 'here, dake dis und get drunk und come back _morgen_.'
I get drunk und go back und break his d--n neck--only for leetle Fritz."
"Leetle Fritz" sat swinging his legs, on the bar. He looked at his
father with plain disapproval. "Ah, cheese it, Pap!" was his advice.
"What's th' good o' gittin' drunk? Why can't you hol' y' likker like a
man?"
A roar of laughter greeted this appeal, at which even Gerken smiled
gleefully. He was glad that Fritz was smart, "_une seine Mutter_."
Dave pushed the Jack of Spades back into the pack. He arose and
sauntered over to the bar. "That's th' way to talk, Pickles," he
endorsed, tickling the boy playfully in the ribs. "Yo 're a-going to
hold yore likker like a man, ain't you?"
"No sirree! Ther' ain't goin' to be any likker in mine. I promised
mother."
"Bully for you!" Dave's admiration was genuine and the boy blushed at
the compliment. Like many other rascals, Dave was easily admitted into
the hearts of children and simple folk and women and dogs. Bruce, the
collie, was nuzzling his hand at that moment and the broad, foolish face
of Gottleib was beaming on him. "Hi, Slick! Pickles 'll have a
lemonade. I 'll have a lemonade, too; better put a stick in mine, I 'm
a-gettin' so 's I need one. An' Pap 'll have a lemonade, too--oh! with
a stick, Pap, with a stick--I would n't go for to insult your stomach."
They drank their lemonades, Gottleib's face expressive of splinters, and
a minute later Pickles sat alone while his father endeavored to win some
of Dave's money and Dave endeavored to let him. Tex tilted his chair
and with a fine disregard for alien fastidiousness, stuck his feet on
the edge of the table and smiled. He almost crashed over backward at
sight of a figure that entered the room from the hall. "God bless our
Queen!" murmured Tex, "he 's a long way from 'ome. Must be a remittance
man come over the line to call on Sandy."
H. Whitby Booth swept an appraising glance over the company and, without
a pause, chose a seat next to Tex. "Surprisin' fine weather, isn't it?"
he observed, taking a cigar-case from his pocket.
"_My word!_" agreed Tex, succinctly.
Whitby looked at him with suspicion. "Try a weed?" he invited.
"I don't mind if I do, old chap," and Tex selected one with a gravity he
was far from feeling.
Whitby looked hard at him while Tex lit the cigar. It was a good one.
Tex noted it with satisfaction.
"I say, are you chaffing me?" asked Whitby, smilingly.
It was a very good cigar. Tex had not enjoyed one as good in a
regrettably long time. He blew the smoke lingeringly through his
nostrils and laughed. "I 'm afraid I was," he admitted, "but you must
n't mind that. It's what you 're here for, the boys 'll think--that is,
if you don't stop long enough to get used to it."
"Oh, I don't mind in the least. And I expect to stop if the climate
agrees with me."
"What's the matter--lunger? You don't look it."
"Not likely. But they tell me it's rather cold out here in winter."
"Some cold. You get used to it. You feel it more in the East, where
the air 's damp."
"I 'm delighted to hear it. And the West is becoming quite civilized, I
believe, compared with what it was."
"Oh, my, yes!" Tex choked on a mouthful of cigar smoke in his haste to
assure Whitby of the engaging placidity of the population. "Why, no one
has been killed about here since--well, not since I came to Twin River."
Tex did not consider it necessary to state how short a time that had
been. "Civilized! Well, I should opinionate. Tame as sheep.
Nowadays, a man has to show a pretty plain case of self-defence if he
expects to avoid subsequent annoyance."
"Ah, so I was informed. They seem quiet enough here."
"Yes, Sandy won't stand any disturbance. He's away to-night but Slick's
got his orders. Know Sandy?"
"No. Is he the proprietor?"
"That's him: Sandy McQueen, proprietor, boss, head-bouncer, the only--"
"I say, what's the row?"
Tex's feet hit the floor with a bang. Gottleib Gerken was shaking his
fist in Dave's face, Dave sitting very still, intently watchful. "_Du
verdammter Schuft!_" shouted Gerken, "_Mein Meister verrathen, was!_"
He sent the table flying, with a violent thrust of his foot: "I show
you!"
Watchful as he was, Dave did not anticipate what was coming. As the
table toppled over he sprang to his feet, the forward thrust of his head
in this action moving in contrary direction to the hurtling fist of
Gottleib, which stopped very suddenly against his nose. Dave staggered
backward, stumbled over his chair and went crashing to the floor, where
he lay for an instant dazed.
"By Jove! that was a facer," cried the appreciative Whitby. The others
were ominously quiet.
The next moment Dave was on his feet, white with murderous rage. There
was more than fallen dignity to revenge: Gottleib knew too much.
Without the least hesitation his gun slanted and the roar of the
discharge was echoed by Gottleib's plunging fall. A frenzied scream,
feminine in shrillness, rang through the room. Dave's gun dropped from
his hand and he sank to the floor; a whiskey bottle, flying the length
of the room, had struck him on the head, and Boomerang, struggling with
maniacal fury in the arms of several men, strove to follow his missile.
At the other end of the bar the numbed Pickles suddenly came to life and
leaped to the floor. Caught and stopped in his frantic rush across the
room he kicked and struck at his captor. "Lemme go!" he shrieked,
"lemme go! I 'll kill the ---- ----" The men holding Boomerang ran him
to the open hall door and gave him forcible exit and the stern command
to "Git! an' keep a-goin'."
A sullen murmur swelling to low growls of anger formed an undertone to
the boy's hysterical cries, as the men looked on at Tex's efforts to
revive the stunned culprit. "Lynch him!" growled a voice. "Lynch him!"
echoed over the room. "Lynch him!" shouted a dozen men, and Tex ceased
his efforts and came on guard barely in time to stop a concerted rush.
Straddling the recumbent figure, his blazing eyes shocked the crowd to a
stand-still. With a motion quicker than a striking rattler a gun in
either hand threatened the waverers. "Dutchy 's got a gun," he rebuked
them; "he was a-reachin' for it when he dropped."
"That's correct," agreed a backward member. "Sure. I seen him a-goin'
for it," affirmed another. They gathered about Gottleib to look for the
proof.
Suddenly the door was flung open and Rose LaFrance stood in the opening.
"What are you doing?" she questioned. "What is the matter with Fritz?
Come here, Fritz."
The boy, released and subsiding into gasping sobs, staggered weakly
toward her. She drew him close and folded him in her arms. The men,
silent and abashed, in moving to allow the boy to pass, had disclosed to
her the figure of the prone Gottleib and she understood. "Oh-h!" she
breathed and looked slowly from one to another, her gaze resting last on
Tex, the fallen table hiding from her the man he was protecting. Utter
loathing was in her look and the innocent Tex was stung to defiance by
it, throwing back his head and returning stare for stare.
"You wolf!" she accused, in low, passionately vibrant tones. "Kill,
kill, kill! You and your kind. Is it then so great a pleasure to you?
Shame to you for mad beasts! And greater shame to the cur dogs who let
you do it." Her glance swept the averted faces with blasting scorn.
"Come, Fritz." She led the boy out and the door was closed carefully
after her by a sheepish-looking individual whose position behind it and
out of sight of those scornful eyes had been envied by every man in the
room.
"Well--I 'm--d--d!" said Tex, recovering his voice.
"'They that touch pitch will be defiled,'" observed Whitby,
sententiously. Tex looked his resentment. He felt a touch on his leg
and glanced down. Dave had recovered consciousness. "Get off me,
Comin'," he requested. "Who hit me?"
"Boomerang flung a bottle at you," informed Tex. "How you feeling?"
"All serene. Head 's dizzy," he added, swaying on his feet. He walked
to the nearest chair and sat down. "Must 'a' poured a pint o' whiskey
into me."
"Boom passed you a quart bottle," replied Tex.
Dave glanced at the inert form of Gerken as it was carried out into the
hall. "Sorry I had to do it," he said, "but I had to get him first or
go under. He oughtn't to said I cheated him."
"I say, that's a bally lie, you know." Whitby's drawling voice
electrified the company. Those behind him hastily changed their
positions. Dave, with a curse, reached again for his gun--it lay on the
floor against the wall, where it had fallen.
"Drop it, Dave," came Slick's grating command. "Think I got nothin' to
do but clean up after you? Which yo 're too hot to stay indoors. Go
outside and cool off."
"You tell me to git out?" exclaimed Dave, incredulously.
"That's what," was Slick's dogged reply. "The Britisher wants to speak
his piece an' all interruptions is barred entirely. An' don't let Sandy
see you for a month."
Dave walked over and picked up his gun. "To h--l with Sandy," he
cursed. The door slammed open and he was gone.
Slick slid his weapon back onto the shelf and proceeded to admonish
Whitby. "See here, Brit, don't you never call a man a liar 'less yo 're
sure you can shoot first."
"But dash it all! the man is a liar, you know. The German chap said
'you d--n scoundrel! Traitor to my master, eh!' There 's nothing in
that about cheating, is there?"
"Well, mebbe not," agreed Slick, "but comparisons is odorous, you don't
want to forget that. Which we 'll drink to the memory of th' dead
departed. What 'll it be, boys?"
CHAPTER VII
THE FRENCH ROSE
The home of Jean LaFrance, a small cabin built principally of the
ever-ready cottonwood, was located in a corner of his quarter-section,
farthest from the Jones' Luck River, which formed one boundary of his
farm. He had designs upon more than one quarter-section, not at that
time an unusual or impossible ambition, in so far as homestead laws
went. His simple plan regarding residence was to move the cabin or
build against it as occasion arose. The rolling country sloped steadily
upward from the river to the chain of hills farther to the east. These
sent down several tributary streams, all unreliable during the warm
weather with the exception of one which passed close to the cabin. The
conformation of the land gave a view from the cabin of one long stretch
of the trail from Twin River and several short ones; opposite the house,
continuing to Wayback, the trail was lost sight of.
Thus Buck was plainly visible as he loped along the trail on the morning
following the Sweet-Echo tragedy, only no one happened to be observing
him. As he disappeared behind the first rise, a pair of inquisitive
young eyes, half closed in the effort of the mouth below to retain
possession of far more than its capacity, arose above the level of the
window sill and looked eagerly for an invitation to mischief. Seeing
nothing that particularly called him, Pickles went out and into the
barn.
Buck struck off the trail and rode along the path to the house. Spring
had returned in force after its temporary retreat before the recent cold
and the air bore whisperings of the mighty wedlock of nature; all about
him the ecstatic song of the meadow-lark held a meaning that escaped
him, vague, intangible, but thrillingly near to suggestion; the new
green of the prairie melted into the faint purple of the distant hills,
beneath a sky whose blue depths touched infinity. It was a perfect day
and Buck, on his errand of aid to the helpless, forgave the fences and
the evidence of land cultivation which threatened the life of the range.
Riding close to the door he raised his quirt--and paused.
Rivalling the meadow-larks there flowed the music of a mellow contralto
roice in song. His hand dropped to his side. That the language was
strange made little difference: the meaning of life almost was
discovered to him as he listened.
"Earth has her flowers and Heaven her sun--
But I have my heart.
Winter will come, the sweet blossoms will die--
But warm, ah! so warm
Is my heart.
"When the White King makes his truce with the Gold--
How dances my heart!
All the sweet perfumes that float in the Spring
Rest close, ah! so close
In my heart.
"One day when Love like a bee, buzzing past,
Wings close to my heart,
Deep he shall drink where no winter can chill,
Content, ah! content
In my heart."
The low voice died away into silence; from afar came the soft cooing of
a dove, soothingly insistent as the croon of a lullaby; the riotous call
of the larks arose in gleeful chorus; within the cabin were the sounds
of movement: footsteps, the pushing of a pan across the table, and then
a subdued pounding which sent Buck's thoughts whirling back into the
distant past to hover over one of his most sacred memories. He sat
perfectly still. How many years had gone by since he had heard a good
woman singing over her household tasks! How very long ago it seemed
since his mother had made bread to the tune of that same 'punch, punch,
slap--punch, punch'! His stern face softened into a tenderness that had
not visited it since he was a boy. Mother--The French Rose--it was a
pretty name.
Buck was not in the least aware of it but when a man thus links the name
of a woman with that of his mother, it has a significance.
The faint nicker of a horse aroused Allday from his apathetic interest
in flies; he raised his head and sent forth a resounding whinny in
response; the blare of it was yet in the air when Rose stood in the open
doorway.
I despair of picturing her to you, so difficult it is to portray in
words the loveliness of a woman's beauty; and the charm of the French
Rose was as many-hued as the changing sky at sunset; the modulations of
her voice ranged from the grave, rich tones of an organ to the melting
timbre of a flute, pitched to the note of the English thrush; her very
presence was as steadfastly delightful as the fragrance of a hay field,
newly mown. In a long life I have known but one such woman and this was
she.
First, then, she harmonized. The simple gown, turned in at the throat,
with sleeves rolled high on the arms for greater freedom in her work,
the short skirt impeding but little her activity of movement, covered a
form meant by God to be a mother of men; and the graceful column of her
neck supported a head that did honor to her form. Lustre was in every
strand of the black hair, against which the ears set like the petals of
a flower; the contour of the face, the regularity of the features, were
flawless, unless for an overfulness of the lips in repose; the natural
olive complexion, further darkened by the sun-tan from her out-door
life, could not conceal the warm color of the blood which glowed in her
cheeks like the red stain on a luscious peach; and the mystery of her
dark, serious eyes had drawn men miles to the solving--in vain.
So she stood, silently regarding Buck, who as silently regarded her.
When she had first come upon him, in those few moments of unaccustomed
softness when the hard mask of assertive manhood had been slipped aside,
her questioning gaze had probed the depths of him, wondering and warming
to what it found there. Her smile awoke Buck to a sense of his rudeness
and he swept off his hat with the haste of embarrassment. "I 've come
for Pickles," he blurted out, anxious to excuse his unwarranted
presence.
"Is it--is it M'sieu Peters?" she questioned.
"That's me," admitted Buck. "Can I have him?" He smiled at the
absurdity of his question. Of course she would be glad to get rid of
such a mischievous little "cuss."
Rose considered. "Enter, M'sieu Peters. We will speak of it," she
invited.
"I shore will," was the prompt acceptance. Buck's alacrity would have
called forth hilarious chaffing from the Bar-20 punchers. It surprised
himself. She set out a cup and a bottle on one end of the table and
hastened to the other with an exclamation of dismay: "_Helas, mon
pain!_" and forthwith the "punch, punch!" was resumed, while Buck stared
at the process and forgot to drink.
"Why do you take Fritz from me?" asked Rose.
Buck resumed his faculties with a grunt of disgust. "What's th' matter
with me?" he asked himself. "Am I goin' loco or did Johnny Nelson bite
me in my sleep? What was that: '_Take_ Fritz?'"
This was seeing the matter in a different light. Buck ran his fingers
through his hair and looked helpless. He poured himself a drink. "Take
Fritz? Take anything she wants? Why, I'd give her my shirt. There I
go again--" and he savagely, in imagination, kicked himself.
"You see--I sort o' reckoned," he faltered, "Dutch bein' one o' my
boys--Pickles--Fritz--ought to be taken care of, an'--"
"So--and you think I will not take care of him?"
"Oh, no; ma'am. Never thought nothin' o' th' kind. You stick yore brand
on him an' we 'll say no more about it. Yore health, ma'am."
Rose packed the dough into the pan and set it aside. Buck watched her
with rueful countenance. "Now you 've gone an' made her mad," he told
himself. "Guess you better stick to cows, you longhorn!"
She returned to her place and sat opposite him, her flour-stained arms
lying along the table. "You shall take him, M'sieu Peters," she
declared.
To Buck's remonstrance she nodded her head. "_Mais oui_--it is better,"
she insisted. "He grow up a man, a strong man--yes. Only a strong man
have a chance in this so bad country. Yes, it is better, I call him."
"Let me," Buck interposed, and stepping to the door he cried out a
yodelling call that brought Fritz scampering into the cabin with scared
face: it was his father's well-known summons. Rose called him to her
and put her arms about his shoulders.
"M'sieu Peters have come to take you with him, Fritz. You will go?" she
asked him.
"Betcher life," said Pickles.
Buck grinned and Rose laughed a little at the callous desertion. "_Eh,
bien, m'sieu_--you hear?" she said to Buck, and then, to the boy: "It
please you more to go with M'sieu Peters than stay with me--yes?"
"Betcher life," repeated Pickles. "Yo 're all right, but I want to be a
cow-punch an' rope an' shoot. Some day I 'll get that d--d ol' Dave
Owens for killin' dad."
"_Dieu!_" Rose was on her feet, gripping Fritz so hard that he
squirmed. "Dave kill--Dave--"
"Sure, he done it! Who'd yeh s'pose?" Fritz wriggled loose and stood
rubbing his shoulder. Rose stood staring at him until Buck pushed him
out of the room, when she sank back into her chair, covering her eyes
with one shaking hand.
Outside Buck was questioning Pickles. "You rid yore daddy's bronc over,
didn't you? Can you rope him? Bully for you. Get a-goin', then. We
want to pull out o' here right smart." Pickles was off on the run and
Buck slowly entered the cabin. He went over and stood looking out of
the window. "I would n't take it so hard," he ventured. "These sort o'
mistakes is bound to happen. An' it might a' been worse. It might a'
been Dave went under."
Rose flung out a hand towards him. "I wish--" she began passionately
and then caught back the words, horrified at her thought.
"Course you wish he had n't done it. He had n't oughter done it.
Dutchy was a good man--an' a square man--an' Dave ain't neither--though
I shore hates to hurt yore feelin's in sayin' so."
"_I_ know him. He is bad--bad. No one know him like me." The deep
voice seemed to hold a measureless scorn. Buck wondered at this.
"Well, if you know him I 'm right glad. I figgered it out you did n't."
"I know him," she repeated, and this time she spoke with a weariness
that forbade further remark.
They remained thus silent until Fritz rode up on the Goat, shouting out
that he was ready and long since forgetful of a scene he had not
understood. Buck turned from the window. "Good-bye, ma'am, I reckon we
'll drift."
Rose came forward with extended hand. "Good-bye. You will guard him?
But certainly. When you ride to town, maybe you ride a little more and
tell me he is well and good. It is not too far?"
"Too far! Th' Double Y ain't none too far. I reckon you forget I come
from Texas."
They waved to her just before they dropped from sight down the last dip
to the trail. She was watching when they came into view again at the
first gap and watched them out of sight at the end of the long stretch
before the bend. Then she turned back into the room and removing the
demijohn and cup from the table, she stood looking at the chair where
Buck had sat. "_Voila, un homme_," she declared, patting gently the
rough back of the chair: "a true man. They are not many--no."
CHAPTER VIII
TEX JOINS THE ENEMY
Tex slung a leg over Son John and ambled away from Wayback, in the wake
of Dave. His adroit and unobtrusive observance of Dave had been without
results unless there were something suspicious in the long conversation
held with a one-eyed puncher who rode away on a Cyclone-brand pony.
Tex, however, was by no means cast down; he could not hope to pick up
something every day and he already had learned the only quarter from
which trouble might come to Buck. He delayed action in the hope that
something tangible might turn up; and he fervently hoped that it might
be before Hopalong found himself foot-loose from the Bar-20. Tex was
quicker with his gun than most men but he possessed a real artist's love
for a reason why action should occur in a certain way; if he were also
able to show that it could have occurred in no other way, he found all
the more satisfaction in the setting.
A loud splash in the nearby river brought his head around in the
direction of the sound; through a break in the foliage a broad patch of
water, seen dimly in the dusk of the evening, showed rapidly widening
circles. "Walloper," commented Tex, immediately resolving to emulate
that fish in the morning. "Though I certainly hope old Smiler won't
come to the water below me for a drink: nice mouthful of mutton I'd make
for his wolf fangs. What in thunder!--" his pony had plunged forward as
if spurred. Tex got him in hand and whirled to face the unknown danger.
The rush of the river, the steady wind through the trees, the elusive
chirp or movement of some bird--only familiar sounds met his ear and
there was still light enough to show only familiar objects. "Why, you
white-legged, ghost-seeing plug-ugly!" remonstrated Tex. "Who do you
think is riding you? Johnny Nelson? Then you must be looking for a
lesson on behavior about now. Get along."
He rode slowly, not wishing to overtake Dave before he settled in Twin
River. Tex had as much right as Dave to be riding from Wayback but he
wished to avoid arousing the faintest hint of suspicion. There was no
other place along the trail for Dave to stop, except the LaFrance cabin.
Queer how opinions differed regarding the French Rose: from the extreme
of all-bad to that of all-good. Judicious Tex, summing up, concluded
her to be neither--"Just like any other woman: half heart, quarter
intellect, and the balance angel and devil; extra grain of angel and she
's good; extra grain of devil and she 's bad." Tex, not knowing Rose
personally, gave her the benefit of the doubt.
"If he stops in there I 'll miss him," said Tex. "But he 's bound to go
on to Twin from there. If we come together in the trail, it's no harm
done: Dave will never suspect me until he looks into my gun. Bet a hat
he thinks I 'm a pretty good friend of his." He chuckled, recalling the
arguments for and against Gerken on the night of the shooting. The
consensus of opinion seemed to be that Dave had been within his rights
but "some hasty." This was not Tex's opinion. He chuckled again as he
recalled the lurid out-spokenness of Sandy McQueen's opinion which had
turned the perfunctory trial into a farce and had kept Twin River on the
grin for two days. "And all is gay when Sandy comes marching home," he
hummed. "I 'm glad they found the gun on Dutch. Peck of trouble if he
had n't been heeled. There 's me, just naturally obliged to pull out
Dave. If he goes under I lose touch with the old thief who stops at
home. Funny they don't get at it. There 's enough material in Twin
River alone to wipe three Double Y's off the map, good as Buck is. Give
him six months more and half Montana could n't do it--because the other
half would be fighting _for_ him, Lordy! The old-times! Folks have
grown most surprising slow these days."
He had left the foot of the farm road half a mile in the rear when he
heard the sound of a horse coming up behind him. The darkness hid Tex
until the other was nearly abreast, when he hailed. "He did turn off to
see Rose," reflected Tex, as he returned the greeting and Dave rode up.
"That you, Comin'?" said Dave. "I been wantin' to see you. Goin'
anywhere particular?"
"No," drawled Tex. "I was just considerin' which of them shanties in
Twin 'd have th' most loose money."
"Bah!" scornfully exclaimed Dave, drawing alongside him. "There ain't
no money in Twin River. You an' me could make a good haul over in
Wayback but I got somethin' better 'n that. Let's go into Ike's. Ike
never hears nothin' an' all th' rest is deaf, too. I want to talk to
you."
Ike's was primitive to a degree but once removed from a tent. The log
walls of the low, single room were weather-proofed in several ingenious
ways, ranging from mud to bits of broken boxes. The bar was a rough,
home-made table, the front and both ends shut in by canvas on which was
painted: "Don't shoot here." Ike was careful either of his legs or his
kegs. A big stove stood in a shallow trough of dirt midway between the
bar and the door, accepting salival tributes in winter which developed
into miraculous patches of rust in summer. Several smaller tables,
likewise home-made, a number of boxes, and a few very shaky chairs
completed the furnishings. It was the reverse of inviting, even in the
bitter cold of winter, but Ike never lacked for customers of a sort and
probably made more money than any one in Twin River. Ike himself was a
grizzled veteran of more than fifty years, sober, taciturn, not given to
cards but always ready to "shake-'em-up." Dice was his one weakness at
any time of the day or night. To be sure, he always won. He had them
trained.
The regular _habitues_ were a canny lot, tight-lipped, cautious, slow in
speech and in movement, except at a crisis. The opening door was a
target for every eye and not a straight glance in the crowd; each seemed
trying, like the Irishman when he bent his gun-barrel, to make his eyes
shoot around a corner. And they all took their liquor alike, squeezing
the glass as if it were a poker hand and they were afraid to show the
quality or quantity of the contents. It was usually easy to pick out an
occasional caller or a stranger: he was drunk or on the way to it; Ike's
regulars were never drunk.
The entry of Dave and Tex was noted in the usual manner. Dave had long
been recognized as one of their kind. Tex, since his dramatic entry
into Twin River, had shown no displeasing partiality for hard work. Both
were welcomed therefore, silently or laconically, not to be confounded
with sullenly. As they sauntered over to an unoccupied corner table,
Tex noticed Fanny sitting in a game with Bill Tregloan, both of them
much the worse for liquor, while their three companions showed the
becoming gravity of sober winners. Fanny closed one of his wide,
woman's eyes and nodded to them with a cheerful grin, but Bill was too
far gone to notice anything but his persistent bad luck. "D--n this
poker game," he bellowed, banging a huge fist on the table, "If 't was
Nap I might win something, but here I 've been sittin' all night,
scatting my money in the say."
Fanny laughed uproariously but the others eyed him in silent
disapprobation. What "Nap" might be they did not know, but poker was
good enough for them.
"What 'll you drink, Comin'?" asked Dave as a preliminary.
"I ain't drinkin', Dave, not never. But I 'm right ready an' anxious to
hear o' that somethin' good you 've got to deal out."
"Y-e-e-a--well, it's this way," began Dave, sampling his liquor in the
customary gulp. He set down his glass to ask abruptly: "Got any friends
in Twin River?"
"Nary friend--nor anywhere else," replied Tex, indifferently. "Don't
need 'em--can't afford 'em."
Dave looked hard at Tex. "What about that bunch Fanny travels with?" he
suggested.
"You said friends," was the significant answer.
"All right--all th' better. I seen you play a mighty good game o'
cards."
Tex snorted. He could not restrain it. Was it possible Dave was aiming
to milk him? "I'm allus willin' to back my play," he declared, drily.
"You won't have to back it. If yo 're as good as I hopes, I 'll back
it. It's this way: I want to back you agin' a man as thinks he can
play. He 's considerable of a dealer--considerable--an' he won't play
me because he beats me once an' thinks I 'm no good. He 's got money,
a-plenty, an' I don't want a dollar. You keeps what you wins--an' I
wants you to get it all." He turned and called across the room: "Ike,
flip us a new deck." The pack in his hands, he faced Tex again.
"Suppose we plays a few hands an' you gimme a sample o' yore style."
Tex thrust his hands in his pockets and tipped back in his rickety
chair. "Lemme get this right," he demanded. "You backs me to play,
pockets th' losses, gives up th' winnin's, all to best th' other
feller--on'y he must n't win."
"You got it."
"On'y he must n't win."
"That's what I said."
"Must be a friend o' yourn."
"Y-e-s," drawled Dave, with a sardonic smile.
"Who is it?"
"Peters o' th' Double Y."
"Ah! I 've heard o' him."
"An' you an' me an' a lot more 'll hear too d--d much o' him if we don't
run him out. He 's a heap too good for Twin River."
"How 'll you rope him?"
"I got a bait--best kind. They allus fall for a woman." Dave's
sneering tones, as he broke open the pack, sorely taxed his companion's
self-control. "What'll we play?" he continued. "Better make it 'stud.'
Th' gamer a man is th' quicker he goes broke at stud an' Peters is game
enough."
Tex dropped back into position and took his hands from his pockets. "I
shine at stud," he remarked softly, taking the deck Dave offered him.
The joker was sent spinning across the room to glance from the nose of
Fanny who sat sprawlingly asleep, nodding to an empty table; the
Cornishman, swearing strange oaths, had gone off some time previously;
two of the others were renewing the oft-defeated attempt to dice Ike to
the extent of a free drink; the rest of the inmates were attending
strictly to business and if an occasional oblique glance was aimed at
Tex and Dave it did not show the curiosity which may have directed it.
"He must n't win," murmured Tex. The cards rustled in the shuffle.
Dave grunted. "An' you must n't win?" Tex inquired.
"I 'm a-goin' to do all I know how to win," warned Dave.
"Oh, that o' course," sanctioned Tex. "Shift this table. I likes to
see th' door," he explained.
Dave complied, looking sharply for some other reason. The lamp on the
wall divided its light fairly between them. Dave was satisfied.
"Is it for love or money?" asked Tex.
"Might as well make it interestin'," suggested Dave.
Tex thought for a moment. "No," he dissented, "'Dog eat dog' ain't no
good. But we 'll keep count so you can see how bad you make out."
It was no game. Tex won as he liked with the deck in his hand and his
remarks on Dave's dealing were neither complimentary nor soothing.
"Duced bad form, as the Britisher would say," was his plaintive
remonstrance at Dave's first attempt; "you palms th' pack like a
professional." Sometime later, as he ran his finger nail questioningly
along the edge of the cards, he shook his head in sorrow: "You shore
thumbs 'em bold an' plenteous, Dave," was his caustic comment. And then,
querulously: "D--n it, Dave! don't deal me seconds. Th' top card is
plenty good enough for me."
It required very little of this to cross Dave's none too easy temper.
He pushed the cards away from him, pleased and annoyed at the same time.
"You 'll do," he declared, "if you can't clean up Peters there ain't a
man in th' country as can." A sudden suspicion struck him. Tex had
reached out with his left hand to pick up the deck. "Where 'd you get
that ring, Comin'? I never seen it afore."
A swift movement of the fingers under the idly held pack and Tex
extended his hand, palm up. The band of dark metal, almost unnoticeable
on the brown hand, was as plain on the palm side as Dave had seen it to
be on the back of the hand. "Belonged to my wife," said Tex, the
cynical undertones in his voice bearing no expression in his face. "I
wear it on our wedding anniversary."
"Excuse _me_," was Dave's hasty apology. He pushed back from the table.
"Keep in trainin', Comin'. I 'll see Rose an' start things rollin'.
Jean will take you in as an old friend when we 're ready. We must n't
be too thick; Peters might hear of it. Good-night. I 'm goin' to
roost."
"Night, Dave." Tex sat fingering the cards with something very like
wonder on his face. "What sort of a babe-in-arms is this for deviltry?
He used to have better ideas. The cold weather up here must have
congealed his brains. Break Buck Peters at stud! Maybe he plans to get
us shooting. I 'll bet a hat old Schatz never hatched that scheme." He
took the cards over to Ike and strolled out, unseating Fanny with one
sweep of his foot as he went.
Fanny arose to his feet, looking for trouble. He was sober in his legs
but his ideas crossed. No one being near him, he surveyed his backless,
up-ended chair with blinking ferocity. "Cussed, buckin' pinto! Think I
can't ride you, huh? Watcher bet?" He righted the chair and took a
flying seat, all in one movement. "Huh! Ride anythin' on four laigs,"
he boasted. Lulled by this confidence in his horsemanship, his head
began to nod again, in sleep.
Tex ambled over to the Why-Not where his entry was greeted with
boisterous invitations to a game. Four bright boys had come over from
the Fort and were cleaning up the crowd. Tex was ashamed of them, and
said so, refusing to go to the assistance of such helpless tenderfeet.
He borrowed paper and pencil of Dutch Fred and rapidly composed a note
to Buck. Much adroit manoeuvring secured the services of Cheyenne
Charley, not yet too drunk to understand the repeated instructions of
Tex. Thus it came about that Buck, without knowing how it got there,
found on his table a communication of absorbing interest, signed: "A
Friend." It read:
Buck Peters: Don't play cards with strangers, especially stud poker.
Dave Owens aims to have Rose rope you into a frame-up. John is in it,
too. Mighty easy to plug you in a row.
"A Friend," mused Buck. "An' Rose is to rope me into a crooked game. I
'm d--d if I believe it." He made as if to tear the paper but changed
his mind. "No, I 'll just keep this. Mebby there 'll be more of 'em.
Jake!" he roared.
"--lo!" came the answering roar.
"Who's been here this mornin'?"
"Where?"
"At th' ranch."
A huge, slouching figure with a remarkable growth of hair appeared in
the doorway. Jake was a cook because he was too big to ride and too
lazy to dig. He ran his fingers through his hair, considering. "At th'
ranch?" he repeated. "There was Pickles an' Ned, o' course; and Cock
Murray come over to ask--"
"I don't mean them, I mean some stranger."
"Stranger? Where?"
"Right here in this room."
"Ther' ain't been no stranger. What'd he do?"
"Do? Why--why, he stole all th' silver, that's what. It's gettin' so I
'll have to lock up all th' valuables every time I go out, yo 're that
interested in yore cookin'. Course, you need th' practice, I agree.
Sling on th' chuck, you blind, deaf elephant. I got to get."
Jake rapidly retreated. In the kitchen he paused and ran his fingers
through his hair. He looked scared. "Stole th' silver! Lock up th'
valuables! He must be loco." Whereupon he stole out of the back door
and concealed two stones in his clothes, where they would be handy. At
close quarters he was a very grizzly for strength but if Buck should
start to shoot him up from a distance, he did not purpose to be
altogether at a disadvantage. Thus fortified he prepared to serve the
meal.
CHAPTER IX
ANY MEANS TO AN END
Jean LaFrance carefully cleaned his boots and stepped into the cabin.
"_Bon jour, ma belle Rose_. Breakfast is ready, eh? But for why you
make three to eat?"
"Did you not see, on the trail?"
"No." He took up a bucket of water and a tin basin, going to a bench
outside, to wash. In a few moments a horseman loped into view and
disappeared again, hidden by an intervening rise. At sight of the rider
a look of fear flashed across the face of Jean and he smothered a curse,
hastily re-entering the cabin to dry his hands. "Dave!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," assented Rose, impassively.
"You know he come?"
"No," as expressionless as before.
"For why he come some early? But yes! Schatz, he send the money, eh?
Eh?"
Rose shrugged her shoulders doubtfully and answered the consequent look
of anxiety on Jean's face by placing her hands on his shoulders and
gently shaking him. "Wait till he comes, _mon pere_," she encouraged
him.
He nodded his head, unconsciously squaring his shoulders in response to
the subtle appeal to his manhood. At the sound of the horseman's feet
he went outside. Dave's smiling cheerfulness relieved his mind and he
returned the greeting with newborn good humor, leading the horse off to
the stable while Dave went indoors.
The handsome animal glowed with the health of youth; not a trace of his
evil nature showed in the sparkle of his eyes, and the clear red of his
cheek still stood proof against the assaults of a life of reckless
debauchery. "Hello, Rose," he cried, "I could n't stay away no longer.
I come up last night but you 'd turned in." Encircling her waist he
drew her to him to kiss her on the cheek, laughing good-naturedly at the
interposed hand. "All right, have it your own way. But I wants you to
know I never aims to kiss a girl yet, as I don't kiss her, come
kissin'-time."
"It is not kissing-time for me, Dave--no. Not for any man. Why you
stay away so long?" she asked--and could have bitten her tongue for it
the next instant.
"Missed me, did you?" commented Dave, delighted. "Well, you see I--" he
hesitated.
"You do not want to tell for why you kill that unoffensive man and leave
Fritz without a father." The contempt in her voice cut like a whip.
"Unafensive!" he repeated, the color ebbing from his face to leave it
the dangerous white of the fated homicide. "He was that unafensive he
knocked me off my feet an' started to pull a gun on me. It was an even
break. That's more 'n yore dad allows when anybody tries to rush him."
She winced as if struck. "Is it not promise you speak nothing of this?"
"I ain't a-speakin' of it. Nobody knows 't was him. Leastwise nobody
but me. I would n't 'a' dug it up on'y you go accusin' me o' killin'
when I has to protect myself."
Jean was heard approaching and Rose made a weary gesture of submission.
"_Eh, bien_. Me, I know nothing but what I hear. Do not be angry when
father comes."
"Peters, I suppose. D--n him for a liar." His face cleared as Jean
entered. "Well, I got bad news for you, Jean. Schatz says he can't let
you have that money just now, but he 'll remember you."
"Good! Soon, I hope," and Jean rubbed his hands in pleased anticipation
as he drew up to the table.
* * * * *
Dave sat silently watching Rose, after Jean had left them to go to his
work. She went about her daily duties, patiently waiting. Something in
Dave's manner told her he had come for more than the mere pleasure of
seeing her.
"Rose, sit down," he said at last. "I want to talk to you." She seated
herself obediently and faced him.
"_Allons_," she prompted him.
"You see, it's this way: Here 's me, errand boy for Schatz. I draws my
time, same as I 'm a-punchin' for him, but what is it? Not enough to
live on. I can make more with th' cards, a whole lot more, on'y you
says no. An' there ain't nothin' reglar 'bout gamblin', anyhow. Schatz
is honin' for his ranch. He 's bound to get it an' I 'm bound to help
him. 'Cause why? I strike it rich. Schatz will put me on as foreman
or mebby better. Now, how do we get th' ranch? Break that
McAllister-Peters combine, that's how. An' how do we break 'em? You."
"Me?"
"You. It's pie. You get him here--Peters--an' I got a man as 'll clean
him out like a cyclone lickin' up a haystack. You get him here, that's
all. You know how. I ain't a-goin' to be jealous of a girl as breaks
off a kiss in th' middle an' han's me back my end of it. You ain't woke
up yet, Rose, an' when you do, I 'll be there."
"You will be there."
"You bet--with aces--four of 'em." He nodded with confident assurance.
"You get Peters a-comin' here an' then some night Comin' Thirty drops in
casual to see yore daddy. That 'll be all. Comin' knows his business."
"Who is Comin'?"
"Who is he?" Dave grinned. "Well, he's th' on'y man can deal a deck
between th' Mississip' an' th' Rockies. When Peters gets through with
him he won't think so much o' that feller he met in Cheyenne--H--l!" He
sprang to his feet, consternation on his face. Rose gazed at him in
mute wonder. "It can't be!" he muttered, "he went out long ago." He
was silent in troubled speculation for a while. "Rose," he continued
abruptly, "you ask Peters, first time you see him--when 'll you go?
To-day?"
"Go where?"
"Over to th' ranch," he explained, impatiently. "You 've got to set her
rollin'. Go over to see Pickles, can't you?"
"Yes, if you say go."
"All right. Go to-day. An' ask Peters when he 's seen Tex Ewalt.
Don't forget th' name: Tex Ewalt."
"Tex Ewalt. I go now. It may be difficult. Men do not come here like
before--"
"Before I showed 'em th' way. You 'll get Peters, if you try right."
"And you? Is it to Big Moose you ride?"
"No, I got to go to Wayback. Will I throw th' leather onto Swaller?"
"No, Swallow come when I call."
"All right. Then I'll hit th' trail. What, you won't? Wait till you
wake up." He went off laughing and in a minute more swung past the
house with a rattle of harness and shout of farewell. Rose stood in the
doorway, motionless, looking after him.
"If I try right. You beast!" The words came through her lips laden with
unutterable loathing. She put her hands before her eyes to shut out the
sight of him and turned back into the room, throwing out her arms in
despair. "What can I do?" she asked passionately; and again: "What can
I do?"
* * * * *
To Tex, grimly watchful in the bar-room of the Why-Not, her coming
brought a shock. He remembered her as she appeared when publicly
denouncing him for a crime he had not committed, a memory that ill
prepared him for the all-pervading charm of her beauty. Approaching
rapidly, a glorious figure, sitting the powerful black with unaffected
grace, her grave loveliness smote him with a sort of wonder. Plunging
through the ford in a series of magnificent leaps, the rifted spray
flashed about her in the sunlight like bursting clouds of jewels. The
solid ground once more under his feet, the black settled into his stride
and they were away, the blue sky above the distant hills set wide for
them, a gateway of the gods. "When she had passed it seemed like the
ceasing of exquisite music," murmured Tex.
Dutch Fred laughed genially at his companion's interest. They two were
alone in the room. "Der French Rose, a fine voman, yes," he remarked,
with open and honest admiration. "You like her?"
Tex stared steadily out of the window as he answered:
"'Had she been true
If Heaven had made me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite
I 'd not have sold her for it.'"
"Sold her! Sold her for a--vot? Vot you talk, anyvay?"
"That, my friend, is what the nigger said when the shoe pinched. There
's a h--l of a lot of tight shoes in th' world, Fred."
Fred walked to the door and gazed solemnly after Tex as he rode away;
then he walked back to the bar and solemnly mixed himself a fancy drink,
which he compounded with the judgment of long experience. He set down
the glass and admonished it with a pudgy forefinger: "How _he_ know she
vear tight shoes, vat?"
But the glass had already given up all it contained.
Swallow, meanwhile, was putting the trail behind him with praiseworthy
speed, and brought Rose within hailing distance of the ranch house just
as Jake, with his carefully concealed stones, re-entered the kitchen.
As she dropped from her horse Buck appeared at the door and sprang
forward to greet her, his stern face aglow with pleasure. "Why, ma'am,
I 'm right glad to see you," he declared, appreciative of the firm clasp
of the hand she gave him. "Honest as a man's," was his thought. "Jake!
O-o, Jake!" he called.
Jake tip-toed to the door and peered cautiously forth, heaving a huge
sigh of relief at the new development. "Better run him in the stable,
Jake," advised Buck. "An' take some o' th' sweat off 'n him. Take yore
time. We 'll wait. You see," he went on to Rose, "none of th' boys is
up; but Ned ought to be here right soon. An' Pickles, Pickles 'll be
that pleased he won't eat nothin'. Pickles says yo 're a brick an' he
likes you 'most as well as Whit."
Her bubbling laughter set Buck to laughing in sympathy and they stood,
one at either side the table, looking at each other like two happy
children, moved to mirth by they knew not what.
"It is a disappointment I have not come before, M'sieu Peters," said
Rose, "you make me so very welcome. But Whit--who is Whit?"
"Whit? Oh, he's th' Britisher we took on when--when we went short a
hand. He 's willin' an' strong an' learns quick, though he shore has
some amazin' ideas about cows."
The momentary clouding of her face as she recalled how he had "gone
short a hand," he allowed to pass without comment and went gayly on.
"Pickles, he likes to hear him tell stories; fairy stories, you might
call them, but they ain't like no fairy stories I ever heard. An' he
tells 'em like he believes 'em. I ain't right certain he don't.
Pickles does. You would n't think a kid like that would take to fairy
stories, would you, ma'am?"
"No-o. Always he is for the grand minute--to be a man, to ride, to
throw the rope,--like that. And to shoot--he must not shoot, M'sieu
Peters."
"Well, you see, ma'am, he--you--I--" he was clearly embarrassed, but
Truth and Buck were Siamese twins and always moved in pairs. Hot and
uncomfortable as it made him, he had to confess. "Why, he 's just
naturally boun' to shoot. Yesterday I give him a rifle an' a big bunch
o' cartridges. He won't hurt nothin', ma'am."
"_Mais non_--I hope not. Make him to be--to be good. A strong man can
be good, M'sieu Peters?"
Buck frowned in thought. "Yes," he declared. "But there 's more ways
than one o' bein' good. Our way 'd never do for some places, an' their
way 'd never do for us. Th' quickest man with a short gun I ever knowed
an' one as has killed considerable few, first an' last, he 's a good
man, ma'am. He would n't lie, nor steal, nor do a mean act. An' he
never killed a man 'less he was driven to it. I say it an' I know it.
I 'd trust him with my life an' my honor. An' there 's more like him,
ma'am, a-plenty." He stood tensely upright, an admirable figure, deep
in earnest thought. And she stood watching him, silent, studying his
face, absorbing his words with a thirsty soul: the firm conviction of a
man who, intuition told her, was sound to the core. "This is a rough
country," he continued, "with rough ways. There 's good men an' bad
men. Th' bad men are th' devil's own an' it seems like th' good men are
scattered soldiers with a soldier's work to do. If a bad man takes
offence an' you know he means to get you if he can, it's plumb foolish
to wait till yo 're shot before you begin shootin'. He did n't begin
with you an' he shore won't stop with you, an' it's your plain duty to
drop him at th' first threatenin' move. Mebby you won't have to kill
him, but if you must, you must. I don't say it's right but it's
necessary. That's all, ma'am."
He turned to her with a whimsical smile. Her face was alight with a
heartfelt gratitude, for Buck, all unknowingly, had exonerated her
father, in showing her a new aspect of his doubtful matter from the
view-point of a man among men. She passed her hand across her eyes in a
swift gesture, then laid it for an instant firmly upon his shoulder.
"_Merci, mon ami_," she said quietly. That shoulder, whenever he
thought of it, tingled for days after, in a way that to Buck was
unaccountable.
A moment later Jake appeared. "Ready in two shakes," he promised,
referring to the meal.
"Can't you rustle up somethin' extra, Jake?" asked Buck. "You know we
got company."
Jake assumed an air of nonchalant capability. "Well, now, I reckon," he
answered; in spite of himself a hint of boasting was in his voice.
"What do you say to aigs?"
"Aigs?" repeated Buck, his eyes widening.
"Aigs!" reiterated Jake, complacently.
Rose looked on in much amusement while Buck's astonished stare wandered
down half the length of Jake's lofty height and stopped. "Are you
carryin' 'em in yore pockets?" asked Buck.
"In my pockets!" exclaimed Jake. He glanced down. What in blazes did
he have in his pockets? A hasty investigation brought forth two large
stones.
"What in--what are you carryin' _them_ for?" asked Buck, with lively
curiosity.
Jake turned to Rose with his explanation: "You see, ma'am, it's th'
cyclone. I got a' almanac as says a cyclone is a-comin' an' due to-day,
an' I did n't want to be blown onto th' top o' one o' these yer
mountains an' mebby freeze to death." Rose's responsive peal of
laughter repaid him, and, withering Buck with a look, he retired to the
kitchen to cook his magically acquired eggs.
The meal was nearly finished when Pickles appeared, late as usual. Ned
had been given up by Buck, who explained his absence as probably due to
the development of some unexpected duty. Rose, awaiting a more
favorable opportunity to introduce the real object of her visit, had
deliberately prolonged the enjoyment of listening to his conversation.
His friends would not have known the usually taciturn Buck. Quite equal
to the production of a flow of language when language was desirable, his
calling and environment seldom found it necessary. Indeed, if brevity
were the sole ingredient of wit, few men had been wittier. But to-day
he surpassed himself in eloquence; and it was in the midst of an
unconsciously picturesque narrative that he was interrupted.
There came a scramble of hoofs, the slam of a door, a rapid padding of
moccasined feet, followed by a yell from Jake and the taunting treble of
a boyish voice, and Pickles sped into view, clutching the door frame as
he ran, and swinging himself out of range. His back toward them and his
head craned in the direction of Jake to insure the full effect of a
truly hideous grimace, he jeered that worthy for his bad marksmanship:
"Yah! you missed me ag'in! W'y don't you use a gun like a man?" and by
way of emphasis he shook the light rifle he was carrying. As Jake
directed a missile with unerring skill at anything short of a bird on
the wing, it is to be presumed that, with Pickles as a mark, he did not
try very hard. It is certain that he was chuckling gleefully as he went
to pick up the dishcloth, a large remnant of what looked suspiciously
like the passing of a blue flannel shirt.
Satisfied there was no immediate danger from the rear, Pickles wheeled
about. "Buck, I near got--" he stopped short. "Rose!" he exclaimed and
looked sharply from her to Buck and back again. "You ain't a-goin' to
take me back?" he asked, doubtfully.
Rose shook her head as she looked at him. It was a new Pickles she saw.
The roguish mischief had gone from the eyes which, when he faced them,
had been alive with eager intensity; the air of precocious anxiety,
tribute to a happy-go-lucky father (oftener "happy" than lucky) had
vanished completely; motionless as he stood in his hopeful expectancy,
he was aquiver with life. "No, Fritz," she assured him, "M'sieu Peters,
he need you--more than me--yes."
Pickles was at the table in a moment. "Betcher life he does," he
agreed. "You don't want a boy, anyhow. I 'd have a girl if I was you.
Say, Buck," he informed between bites, "I seen Ned an' he says that d--n
bull's broke out again. He 's gone after him. An' Cock Murray says: Can
you lend him a hat. That wall-eyed pinto o' his made b-- out o' his 'n."
"You young scallywag! You must n't swear afore a lady--not never. An'
you must talk polite, besides. Don't you never forget it."
Pickles looked straight into Buck's stern eyes, without fear. "I
won't," he promised, earnestly. "Gosh! I 'm hungry," and he proceeded
to prove it. And Rose knew then that Pickles would grow up a "strong
man"--and a good man, after the ideas of M'sieu Peters, which, she had
become convinced, were very good ideas, indeed.
Pickles had long since departed with a hat for the far-distant Murray;
the boys had straggled in and gone again from the bunk-house, where Jake
ministered to their amazing appetites; and the afternoon sun was casting
shadows of warning before Rose remembered the long ride home which was
to come. A silence, longer than usual, had fallen upon them, which
neither seemed to find embarrassing. Buck's inscrutable face, as he
looked upon her, told nothing of his thoughts; but on hers was a soft
wistfulness that surely sprang from pleasant imaginings. She pushed
back her chair at last with a murmur of regret. Jake was glad to hear
it. He had begun to have anxious misgivings regarding his job. Buck
glanced through the window and really saw the outside world for the
first time in two hours. He sprang to his feet and exclaimed in
bewilderment. "First time in my life I ever did it," he declared. Rose
looked an inquiry. "First time th' sun ever stole a march on me that
way," he explained. "Reckon I must a' been some interested in your
talk, ma'am," and his humorous smile was deliciously boyish. The
sparkle in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks told that Rose discerned
a compliment higher than the spoken one. She began to draw on her thick
man's gloves with an air almost demure.
"It is very selfish that I have make you waste so much time, M'sieu
Peters," she apologized, her eyes intent upon the gloves.
Buck stared. There was a certain grimness in his humor as he answered:
"Hm! Well, I 'm a-goin' to waste some more. That is, I will if you
don't run away from Allday. He 's good, but that black o' yourn has got
th' laigs of him, I reckon."
She watched him as he strode away for the horses, deciding how best to
approach the object of her visit. True to her nature it was less an
approach than a direct appeal. As they set off together she spoke
abruptly: "What time did you see Tex Ewalt last? I think--I am sure--it
is better if you have not see him for a long time--so."
"Well, I ain't seen him in a long time." He was plainly surprised. "Do
you know Tex?" he asked, wonderingly.
She shook her head. "No. Some one ask me--but you have not seen him.
That is good. Once I tell you I am glad if you come to see me about
Fritz."
"Shore I 'll come," he promised heartily.
"You must not," she warned him. "In the morning, a little while, yes;
at night or to stay long--no."
A light broke in upon Buck, who recalled the mysteriously delivered
letter of that morning. The wholesome admiration for a lovely woman,
the natural pleasure in an experience infrequent in his man-surrounded
life, began to concentrate and take definite shape in his mind at the
promised vindication of his judgment. He tested her shrewdly: "You
don't want to see me," was his brusque comment.
She looked reproachfully at his set profile. "_Mais, quelle folie_! I
am glad to see you always," she assured him, "but it must be like that.
It is better." She hesitated a moment and continued: "It is better
_aussi_, if you will not play cards. I--I like it, much, if you will
not play cards." Her heightened color and diffident manner showed what
it cost her to make it a personal request.
"By G--d! I knew it," cried Buck. He whanged Allday over one eye with
his hat, and that sedate animal executed a side jump that would have
done credit to a real bad pony. There are limits to all things and
Allday was feeling pretty good just then, anyway.
Rose was startled. "What is it you know?" she asked, doubtfully.
Buck's face was alight with smiling gratification. Oblivious of the fact
that at last he had stung Allday into remonstrance, he answered by the
card, "I knowed that gamblin' habit 'd grow on me so my friends could
see it. An' I hereby swears off. I never touches a deck till you says
so, ma'am. That goes as it lays."
Still doubtful as to his meaning--such exuberance of feeling could
scarcely be induced by swearing off anything--she questioned him in some
embarrassment. "Is it I ask too much, that you will not play?"
"Too much! There ain't nothin' you can't ask me, nothin'--" he paused.
"It's time I was hittin' th' back trail 'fore I say mor'n I ought. Just
one thing, ma'am: I can't never know you better than I do right now.
An' I want to say I 'm right proud to know you." He drew Allday down to
a walk and halted as she stopped and faced him, sweeping her a salute as
eloquent in gesture as were his words in speech.
The color came and went in her cheeks as she regarded him. "I am glad,"
she said at last, "Oh, I am very glad," and turning, she left him at a
speed that vied with her racing thoughts.
Buck watched her go, the definite shape in his mind assuming a
seductiveness that fascinated while it scared him. "If I was only ten
years younger," he muttered. He jerked Allday's head around. "Get away,
boy," he cried, and the horse struck his gait at a bound.
Buck was riding wide of the ranch house when a suspicion pricked him and
he headed for home. At the door he shouted for Jake.
Jake lounged out. "What's th' noise?" he asked, languidly.
"Say, Jake, where 'd you get them aigs?"
Jake looked pained. "I got 'em off Cheyenne Charley," he asserted.
"Cheyenne Charley? Where 'n blazes did he get 'em," wondered Buck.
"Well, now, I can't rightly say," drawled Jake, "but I'm certain shore
o' one thing: he never laid 'em."
"No," agreed Buck, reflectively. "Did he give 'em to you?" he added.
Jake yawned elaborately to hide the weakness of his position. "Not
exactly," he admitted. "I got him drunk."
"Oh," commented Buck. He turned to ride off when another question
obtruded itself, but Jake had disappeared. Buck slid to the ground and
entered quietly by another door, going to where he kept his private
stock. A rapid inspection showed where Jake had obtained his supply.
He had appropriated Buck's whiskey to pay for eggs which it was very
evident he had meant to eat himself. Only his vanity had led to their
disclosure. "Th' d--n scoundrel!" said Buck, and he hurriedly secured
the demijohn in the one place in the house that locked.
CHAPTER X
INTRODUCING A PARASITE
In the northeast corner of the Cyclone ranch, not far from the Little
Jill, and in a hollow, well screened by hills and timber, One-Eye sat on
his horse, smoking a brown cigarette and keeping a satisfied watch over
a dozen mangy-looking cattle as they grazed intermittently in a
restless, nervous way. They were a pitiful-looking handful, weak,
emaciated, their skins showing bald patches and scabs, and they
continually licked themselves and rubbed against the trees. While they
were restless, it was without snap or vim; they were spiritless and
drooping, enduring patiently until death should end their misery.
One-Eye beamed upon them, his good optic glowing with satisfaction. He
had gone to some trouble and risk to cut these miserable animals cut of
the herd collected by the hasty round-up, and now that he was about to
have them taken off his hands he sighed with deep content. To run
infected cattle onto the Cyclone's non-infected northern range was very
dangerous, for his foreman was direct and unhesitating in his methods.
Discovery might easily mean a bullet above One-Eye's blue-red nose--and
this accounts for that puncher's satisfaction. Some men will do a great
deal for ten dollars.
"D--n if they ain't beauts," he chuckled. "When it comes to pickin' out
th' real, high-toned wrecks, th' constant scratchers, why I reckon I 'm
some strong. He says to me 'Get th' very wust, One-Eye,'--an' I shore
has obeyed orders. That two-year-old tryin' to saw through that
cottonwood is a prize-winner when it comes to scabs--his tail looks like
a dead tree in a waste of sand, th' way th' hair 's gone. Wait till he
gets rubbin' hisself through th' brush across th' river, where Peters'
cows like to hang out. He 'll hang mites on every twig; an' this kind
o' weather will boom things. I heard tell that Peters examined that new
herd extra cautious afore he bought it--well, boxcars an' pens can hand
out itch a-plenty, so he can't prove they got it from us." He pulled
out a battered brass watch and gauged where the broken hands would be if
they were all there to point. "He 's due in ten minutes an' he 's
usually on time. Yep: here he comes now. I 'll get my ten afore I do
any more work--wish I could get ten dollars as easy every day."
Dave cantered up, his eyes fastened intently on the cattle, and he
laughed cynically as he turned and regarded the puncher. "Well," he
grinned, "I reckon you got th' wust that could stand bein' drove. Come
on; we 'll get 'em off our hands as quick as we can--I don't want to
answer no questions right now. It 'll be like puttin' a match to dry
grass, th' way this dozen will cut down Peters' cows."
"It shore will," replied One-Eye. "Got that ten handy?" he inquired,
carelessly.
"Why, they ain't across th' river yet," replied Dave, frowning.
"They 'll get across when I gets my ten," smiled One-Eye.
"Here 's th' money!" snapped Dave, angrily, as he almost threw the gold
piece at his companion. "Fust time I was ever told I could n't be
trusted for ten dollars."
"Oh, I trust you, all right--on'y I worked plumb hard for that coin, an'
I want to feel it, like. Come on--take th' south side--I 'll handle th'
rest."
The herd moved slowly forward into a dry ravine and finally came to the
river bank. They hadn't life enough to give trouble until they
understood what they were expected to do. Then the everlasting,
thick-headed obstinacy, the perverse whims which all cows have to an
outrageous extent, asserted itself in a manner wholly unexpected in such
tottering hulks of diseased flesh. They did everything but get wet,
even showing a returning flash of spirit in the way they swung their
heads and kicked up their heels. Time and time again they broke and ran
along the bank, and always in Dave's direction, who, until now, had
nursed the belief that he was something of a cow-puncher. When half-dead
cows unhesitatingly picked him out, time after time, for an easy mark,
and simply walked through his defence, it was time to exchange ideas on
some things.
At first One-Eye was greatly amused. He liked Dave well enough but he
hated Dave's conceit--and to be present at his companion's discomfiture
was very gratifying. But gradually One-Eye grew restless unto
peevishness and a vast contempt settled upon him, edging his temper with
a keenness rare to him. He had been trying to get one dozen imitation
cows to cross an ordinarily wide river, and neither coldness nor unusual
depth had any bearing on the matter. As he wondered how long he had
been engaged in watching Dave's blunders and jerked out the brass watch
to see, his voice rumbled and boomed with a jarring timbre and
suddenness that make Dave jump.
"What th' h--l d' you think yo're doin'?" demanded One-Eye.
"'Allamanleft' an' 'Ladies chain' is all right for a dance, but it 's
some foolish out here. An' somebody 's goin' to lope along this way an'
see us, if you don't quit makin' a jackass out er yo'rself."
Stung to the quick, Dave wheeled to face his critic, his pent-up rage
almost hysterical. He had held it in, choked it back, and forced
himself to be calm, but now--his purpose was never disclosed, for at the
instant he wheeled, the watchful cattle leaped through the opening he
had made and headed for the hills, their heads down and tails up. Dave
hesitated, glancing from One-Eye to the cattle and back again, his face
white and pinched. One-Eye's anger melted under his impelling sense of
the ridiculous and, slapping his thigh a resounding smack, he burst into
roars of laughter, until he was bent in his saddle like a man drunk or
sorely wounded.
"This yer 's a circus," he finally managed to cry. "Don't get mad, Dave:
we 'll make 'em cross this time or they 'll float down like logs. Come
on."
When they rounded up the bunch and started it toward the river again the
cows were surprisingly docile an
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