by Hal Dunning
CHAPTER XX
SHORTY TALKS
Later, while the outlaw was watering and feeding his horse, he wentover his talk with the girl. He knew from her last lie that she fearedSpur and that for some reason all talk to strangers about her father'sdeath was taboo. He decided he would like to see that last note writtenby John Reed. The whole thing sounded natural enough, for two of therustlers had been killed--yet he felt there was something wrong. Hebelieved in Slivers, believed the boy had been framed by some one; andthe fact that Spur Treadwell had taken trouble to fasten on Sliversthis second killing and rustling went to prove that perhaps the boy wasright in his belief that the big manager of the Double R was the onewho had framed him. If he had not known Slivers, Allen would haveunquestionably accepted, as others had apparently done, SpurTreadwell's story of the killing of John Reed.
Two of the rustlers had been killed, and if a murder is committed andyou produce the bodies of the murderers, people will usually acceptyour story and not inquire further. Allen told himself grimly, that hehad known other men who had double crossed their tools. Perhaps thesetwo rustlers knew too much, and Spur Treadwell had killed two birdswith one stone, shut their mouths and got rid of John Reed.
"Shucks, it's plumb easy to talk an' figger out things for yourself,but it's a cow of another color makin' other folks see along with yuh.An', Mr. Jim-twin Allen, if that there hombre, Spur, gets one littlesuspicion yuh're snoopin', you'll take a ride one day an' never comeback," he told himself seriously.
Later, Spur Treadwell turned Allen over to Bill McAllister, the bosshorse wrangler, and told him to put the boy to work with the cavvy. TheDouble R was a large outfit and employed between twenty to forty men,depending on the season, so there were always two or three hundredhorses in the cavvy.
Bill McAllister was a weather-beaten man of fifty. His lined and seamedface had been tanned by wind and sun to the color of leather. Hisgrizzled hair was thin over his temples, and his blue eyes were faded.He was a taciturn man whose jaws got their exercise from chewing, nottalking. His greeting to Allen was short but friendly enough.
The little outlaw decided McAllister was honest and could be trusted.This bothered him for a time. He could not see how McAllister could behonest and yet be a sort of foreman for Spur Treadwell; especially asthe few punchers he had seen loafing about the ranch were obviouslymore used to handling their Colts than their ropes. Their smooth hands,free of callouses, marked them as gunmen rather than cow-punchers.
"I'm sure in luck to get a job like this," Allen said, grinning. "I'veworked aroun' hosses since I was a kid, but I never been on such a bigoutfit as this before. Yep, I'm sure in luck."
The old horse wrangler's reply was only a grunt. Allen refused to bediscouraged by this and continued to prattle like a schoolboy onvacation. Bill McAllister listened to him for a time in a disgruntledsilence, but little by little his reserve fell away, and before he knewit, he was chuckling at the boy's remarks and answering his apparentlypointless question without reserve.
"I betcha when ol' man Reed first come here he had to be right smart inwatchin' for Comanches," Allen said.
"Yuh betcha! More than once I high-tailed into the corral one jumpahead of a dozen of them devils," the old wrangler said reminiscently.
That settled one thing in Allen's mind. Bill McAllister had worked forJohn Reed long before Spur Treadwell appeared on the scene. SpurTreadwell either did not find it necessary to fire him, or was afraidto do so for fear of comment.
"I betcha yuh have fights aplenty with rustlers," Allen said and thenadded eagerly: "I'm goin' to get me a gun so I can help fight them."
"Son, don't yuh do no such thing. Yuh're a whole lot safer naked thanif yuh packed a gun," the old-timer warned.
"But suppose I met a rustler?" the boy insisted.
"I ain't talkin' about rustlers, but some of the gents what has come towork on this outfit since the or man died," Bill McAllister saidgruffly.
Allen allowed the subject to drop. He had learned enough for thepresent. The horse herd was pastured to the south of the ranch in alarge meadow which was partly fenced in by dense thickets and partly bywire. Here he met "Maverick Ed" Stone, the other day herder.
Maverick was a lantern-jawed, stoop-shouldered, lanky man of forty, andAllen found him almost as taciturn as his boss. The herder's job was aneasy one. It consisted in riding along the boundaries of the meadow andwatching to see that none of the horses escaped through the brush.
That night at chow, Allen glanced along the long table in the cookhouseat the score of punchers present. The riders were of all ages. Theseven men who sat at the far end of the table were as different fromthe others as sheep from goats. They were quiet-spoken men and all woretheir holsters tied down. The others were cow-punchers pure and simple,who, while they would all fight at the drop of a hat, were notprofessional fighters. To Allen these gunmen were one more pointagainst Spur Treadwell. He knew they could be explained satisfactorilyto others by the fact that the ranch was close to the Nations and thatseveral raids had been made on the Double R stock. Every ranch in sucha situation would keep a gang of fighters on its payrolls.
By keeping his ears open and asking a few judicious questions thatnight in the bunk house, Allen learned that the gunmen worked thenorthern end of the ranges, as this was considered the danger point. Itwas near the Hard Pan country which led to the Nations.
"That's plumb natural, but if a gent was lootin' the ranch, it wouldmake it plumb easy," he told himself.
Yet he was convinced that Spur Treadwell had a deeper game than thelooting of the ranch. Sooner or later, Treadwell would be sure to bediscovered if he tried that--yet it was hard for Allen to decide whathis game was. It would take time to burrow deep enough to uncover themystery and it might necessitate several trips into the Hard Pancountry.
The little outlaw was talking, laughing, and adroitly questioning ashort squat puncher named "Shorty" when two men entered the bunk house.Allen's eyes flicked yellow for a moment as they rested on thenewcomers, then he turned so that his back was against the light. Heknew them, but would they remember him? If they did---- He worked thegun he wore in a shoulder holster a little more forward.
The bunk house was lined on either side with a double row of bunks,with wooden pegs on either side for the occupants' clothing. The placewas lighted by two big lamps, one at each end of the long room. Here,as in the cookhouse, there was the same sharply drawn demarcationbetween the gunmen and the cow-punchers.
The newcomers stalked down the room and took their places at the tableat the farther end among their own kind.
Both were gunmen--killers. They were twins, "Sandy" and "Mac" McGill.There was Indian mixed with their Scotch blood. From the first they hadinherited their killing propensity, from the second a cool, deadlynerve.
Mac had a scar on his left cheek, and it was only from this mark thatone of the twins could be distinguished from the other. Both were ofmedium height, rather slender and wiry of build. Their eyes were likeblue marbles, their hair sandy in color. Their faces were rather long,and their jaws heavy, which contrasted strangely with their thin andcruel mouths.
Covertly, from beneath the brim of his hat, Allen watched them whilepretending to listen to a long-winded story by Shorty. If theyrecognized him, it would be the end, for no matter whether he won thegun fight or not, it would mean his quitting the ranch. Perhaps hecould keep out of their way for a few days, but sooner or later, hewould come face to face with them. As long as the crisis had to come,it might as well come that night. He would play his part--and theragged boy from Fort Worth should not be found packing a gun in ashoulder holster. That was a risk he would have to take, for if he tookoff his gun and they recognized him, they would shoot him down like adog.
A little later, he slipped out of the bunk house, unfastened hisshoulder holster and gun, hid them beneath the bunk house, and thenreturned to the long room.
"Yuh
was tellin' me about this here Hard Pan country," he said toShorty, when he returned.
"Yeh, I was tellin' yuh to stay clear of it 'cause it ain't nothin' buta lot of buttes with hard pan between them. Yuh can get lost thereeasy. Yuh could drive a hundred cows over this here hard pan and neverleave no trail a-tall 'cause it's just like stone. An' there's athousan' trails windin' about in there. Some of 'em is blind ones an'they twist about scandalously. Then, besides, 'Boston Jack' don't likefolks wanderin' about the buttes."
From the corner of his eye, Allen saw that both the McGills werewatching him and whispering to each other. He saw them slowly arise totheir feet and move toward him. Mac came directly toward him and Sandycircled the table to take him in the rear. It was coming.
"Who's this here Boston Jack?" he asked, and there was no quiver in hisvoice--nothing to show that he knew he might be dead in sixty seconds.His voice was eager, curious.
"He's the gent what bought the ol' Double B Ranch after the bankforeclosed. It's about twenty mile from here, tother side of the HardPan. He's runnin' hosses, but folks figger he's runnin' cows on theside--other folks' cows--but they never can catch him." The garrulousShorty paused to yank off a chew from a piece of black plug.
"Stay put!" Mac snapped.
Shorty looked up, saw Mac with his gun out, and then promptly fell oversideways to be out of the way. At the same time Mac spoke, Allen's armswere seized by Sandy from behind.
"I ain't done nothin'," Allen cried.
He struggled to his feet and tried to free himself from Sandy's irongrip. As he struggled, he ducked his head to shield his face with hishat brim and blinked his eyes. He knew that they were what would bemost likely to give him completely away.
"Dang yuh, I ain't done nothin', let me be!" he again cried in aperfect imitation of an angry boy.
"Stay still. What's your name an' where do yuh come from?" Mac askedcoolly.
Allen felt Sandy's hands exploring beneath his arms and every otherplace where it would be possible to conceal a gun.
"My name's Ashton, from down Fort Worth way. Mr. McCann brought me outhere," he replied.
"Yuh know One-wing?" Mac asked sharply.
"Sure, I see them arrive together, an' One-wing tol' Spur he knew him,"one of the other gunmen volunteered.
"An' he ain't heeled," Sandy announced.
"Guess we made a mistake--no wolf would travel without his teeth," Macsmiled thinly.
Sandy released him, and Allen pretended to trip and fall to the floor.The shadows were deeper there.
"Who'd yuh think he was?" a gunman asked, as the two returned to theirtable.
"One of them Allen twins," Mac replied shortly.
"Ha-ha-ha!" Shortly laughed. "That's a hell of a joke on them--theytook yuh for the Killer Wolf."
"Dang fools," Allen grumbled, as he arose to his feet and ruefullyrubbed his arms where they had been seized by Sandy's steellike fingers.
He grinned to himself. He had carried it off and besides he had learnedone important thing. Every cow-puncher in the bunk house had coweredaway from the killers except Maverick Ed Stone and two punchers by thenames of "Flat-foot" and "Snoots" Stevens. At least he had learned thatthese three had nerve and were not friends of the McGills'. He was gladof this, for he felt that before many days passed, he would have needof men with nerve to help him.
Spur Treadwell looked through the bunk-house door and said shortly:"Time for yuh boys who is ridin' to-night to get started."
Several riders, among whom was Shorty, arose grumblingly to their feetand, taking coats and hats from pegs, went outside. Allen drifted outafter them. He saw that four of the gunmen were also assigned to nightherding.
"Where yuh goin'" he asked, as he watched Shorty and three other ridersas they saddled their horses.
"The Double R cows is shrinkin' like snowballs in hell--so a dozen ofthe boys is put ridin' the range to keep the herd from shrinkin'complete," Shorty explained.
"Spur is sure gettin' ready to go on the prod," another rider said witha laugh.
"Yuh let me go with yuh?" Allen asked.
After a moment's protest, Shorty agreed to allow the boy to accompanyhim. After Allen had retrieved his gun and shoulder holster, he saddledhis gray and he and Shorty rode south from the ranch.
There was a quarter moon, and the whole plain was covered with adeceptive light.
"Why for don't Spur go an' talk personal with this Boston Jack?" Allenasked.
"He done it just after ol' man Reed was downed, but didn't find nothin'a-tall. Boston just laughed at him--but one of his riders gets hotunder the collar an' talks war to Sandy McGill, who drops him pronto.Just the same, I'm plumb curious an' I figger on amblin' some nightinto the Hard Pan an' havin' a look. Spur puts them gunmen of hisn overthat way--but I don't trust them gents none a-tall!"
"Spur gets 'em after the old man is downed?" Allen asked.
"Naw, the old man gets 'em up from the border a couple of weeks aforehe stops lead. Funny how he was wanderin' about by hisself when he runsinto them rustlers what downed him. Yep, it's sure funny, 'cause Ihears he hires them McGills as personal bodyguards. It would 'a' beenpositively ludicrous if Spur hadn't been there," Shorty saidreflectively.
"What yuh mean--Spur bein' there?" Allen encouraged.
"'Cause I don't trust them McGills a-tall. But Spur is white an' ain'tthe sort to have no truck with rustlers. Then, besides, he's got money.An' ain't he goin' to marry Dot Reed? So he ain't goin' to steal whatwill be hisn some day," Shorty explained, as he deftly rolled acigarette.
Their horses slid into a deep wash floored with boulders. After theyhad picked their way across and climbed the opposite bank, Allenstarted to ply Shorty with questions again.
"I hears Dot was goin' to marry this Slivers person?" he said.
"Yeh, mebbe she was, but Slivers is wanted bad for two murders, amongwhich is her old man, so I reckon she forgot him."
"Mebbe she don't believe he's guilty," Allen volunteered.
"Mebbe so. I sorta liked Slivers myself an' never figgered him the sortof gent what would dry-gulch a man. Yeh, there's somethin' sorta funnyabout that too an' I'm a-gettin' plumb curious."
Allen decided that Shorty was altogether too talkative for a man whohad such a broad, curious streak. Under the present circumstances tohave either was dangerous, but to have both was suicidal.
