The boy hung back.
“I ain’t never been around much,” he said timidly. “I ain’t got any guts at all when it comes to bulling my way through.”
“Just you leave that to me, buddy,” Montana reassured him, dropping an arm across his shoulders. “I’ve never missed any meals yet—although some of them have been delayed for quite a spell. I’m really to blame for getting you up here.”
“That isn’t any sign you’ve got to feed me,” the boy flashed. “If I’d had any sense I’d—”
“It isn’t a question of sense,” Montana cut him short. “It is a question of victuals. And that’s what we’re going to get the most of quick. Pards split the kitty all the time. We’ve got work together. Say?” he asked. “What am I going to call you? You aren’t from any place in particular and—” He stopped, thoughtfully. “Montana is a pretty good state, kid. You’ve never been there yet, but I suppose that is where two old side-kicks like us will wind up. Supposing we just call ourselves the Two Montanas?”
“That would be great!” Clem exclaimed with childish enthusiasm. “You be Big Montana and I’ll be Little Montana. Gosh-all-hemlocks, mister, I never thought when I rode up here and saw you going for your gun that you were the kind of a feller who would play make-believe with a little walloper like me. When you were clawing for that gun you had a nasty eye. It just plumb froze me so I couldn’t holler. You looked tough and—”
“I am tough,” Montana growled with mock severity. “And you’d better not give me any of your lip, Button. I’m boss of this here Two Montana gang.” He seized hold of the youngster and tossed him onto his horse. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a jolly, contagious laugh that brought a chuckle of delight from the lad. “And I’m ordering my gang to plank themselves down to ham and eggs at the first restaurant we can locate in this here town of Elbar.” He swung into his own saddle. “After that we’ll find this Al Cousins and see what is in the letter I brought him. If it doesn’t tell us any more than our letters we’ll shag it north, buddy, north to Montana, together.”
CHAPTER TWO
A WARNING
Dusty garbed, their faces streaked with sweat and grime, Montana Ellis and the boy, Clem White, rode across the rickety plank bridge that spanned the sullen Tongue River and pushed their weary ponies into Elbar.
The village was a counterpart of other hamlets that dotted the prairies, their only hope for existence the trade of the big cattle outfits in the surrounding territory—a shipping point at the round-up’s end—a rendezvous for freighters, cowhands bent on a spree—a hideout for fugitives who scoffed at the law from the fastness of the wild region beyond.
A single street, deep-rutted by wind and rain, flanked on either side by dilapidated boardwalks, was uninviting, dreary. A cluster of buildings, with high false fronts, huddled together as though for protection against the merciless suns of summer and lashing fury of winter blizzards. A ramshackle church, the sign proclaiming its denomination long since effaced by blasting sand—stores, saloons, the inevitable livery stable, harness shop. Beauty there was none. Paint and civic pride were things unknown. Everywhere was evidence of weather, the buildings but blackened hulls, shingles warped, torn paper flapping on their roofs, driftwood and debris banked against their sides by the Tongue in its annual rampages.
Save for a dozen saddle horses drowsily fighting flies at the hitchrails, rumps to the stinging sand that whirled along the street before a whining breeze, the village seemed devoid of life.
“It isn’t just what you’d call crowded with folks,” Montana mused dryly to the wide-eyed, staring boy beside him. “But mebbeso the gents hereabouts do most of their work at night and take a siesta in the daytime. It must be the place though, because that two-story building yonder,” he shifted his weight, stood in one stirrup, “the biggest in town, is the Elbar Hotel. I don’t allow that Uncle Nat was loco this far.”
They rode slowly down the street, Montana reading the signs as they went.
“Saloons just plenty and regular,” he observed, “but no restaurants or human beings. I’ll lay money to—” The violent shying of his horse checked his words. The form of a man came lurching through the swinging doors of a saloon to sprawl face downward in the street. When Montana had succeeded in quieting his snorting mount, they rode back. The stranger still lay motionless in the dirt. Dismounting, Montana dragged his reluctant horse forward and stooped over the fellow.
“One sheepherder helping another!” came a raucous bawl followed by a roar of laughter.
At that moment the prone man—a wizened, poorly dressed fellow—recovered his senses. Montana helped him to his feet, picked up his battered hat, slapped the dust from it, and placed it on his grizzled head. Muttering his thanks, the man slunk away into the crowd which suddenly had collected from nowhere.
“I say it takes one sheepherder to find another!” came the booming voice again. “It’s the smell that does it, I reckon. Where did you do your last herding job, drifter?”
Montana’s gaze traveled upward slowly from a pair of flashing, inlaid spurs, along bangle-studded chaps and blazing purple silk shirt, finally coming to rest on the swarthy, weather-pitted face of a man who had swaggered from the saloon to stand directly above him on the boardwalk—a man of ponderous bulk with massive shoulders and great thighs that glistened with ornamental conchas. A loosely knotted neckerchief of red, a great-brimmed beaver hat with silver band, and fancy wristlets of stamped leather completed his attire.
But the flashiness of the garb drew only the passing interest of Montana. It was the fellow’s eyes that held him; little glittering black eyes, set deep beneath beetling brows and low, narrow forehead, peering out from over high cheekbones—cruel eyes, scheming.
As Montana’s gaze met that of the stranger the fellow started violently. His gloved hands dropped to hook, thumbs down, near the butts of two pearl-handled forty-fives holstered in a studded cartridge belt at his waist. The strange light that flared into the glinting eyes puzzled Montana. It was as though the fellow had recognized him. Yet for the life of him he could not place him.
The stranger’s gaze darted on to the boy, who had swung down to stand timidly beside Montana. The unfathomable gleam in those eyes deepened. Montana dared a glance at Clem. But if the lad ever had seen the big puncher before, was even conscious of the recognition in his eyes, he gave no indication of it.
Montana broke the silence that was deepening ominously; silence unbroken now save for the occasional shifting of a roweled foot on the plank walk or the whine of the breeze chasing eddies of dust up the street.
“You guessed it, pardner,” Montana said good-naturedly, yet with a strange glint in his own blue-gray eyes. “I come from sheep country, all right. But being a cowman I never have been accused of having any keen affection for the woollies. Even a sheepherder though, is better sometimes than no humans at all. I figured until I saw this one come bouncing out from that bar that everybody around here was dead.” His steady gaze never left the man while his faculties were groping about to account for the veiled light of recognition that shone in his eyes.
“There are no dead ones in Elbar,” the fellow snarled, taking an uncertain step to plant himself spread-legged, weaving on his feet. He licked weather-cracked lips, a gesture that somehow suggested a lion gloating over easy prey. It was obvious that liquor had put the big cowboy in an ugly mood. “But snooping strangers have a way of turning up missing.”
Montana’s eyes jerked along the huge frame before him. Gone now was their quiet pleasantness. A shafted light, sinister, warning, lit their depths. But his thin lips were smiling; a set and frozen smile. And if the big puncher calculated to intimidate him with his threatening manner he was sadly disappointed. When Montana spoke his voice had taken on a soft brittle tone. His words came cold, clipped.
“Figured you already had me pegged the way you sized me up,” he s
aid.
Again the cowboy started. Again the unfathomable gleam flared into his eyes.
“I’m asking your name,” he demanded, thick-tongued. “And I’m telling you plain—we don’t cotton to strangers around Elbar.”
“Is that so?” Montana asked quietly. “And me with the unfortunate habit of going wherever I please.” In a quick movement he stepped up on the walk, onto an even footing with the big fellow. His eyes swept the length of the street, now lined with people. White faces peered from windows and doorways.
“It doesn’t pay to get mouthy,” the big puncher snarled. “I’m demanding to know your name. And the name of this brat,” indicating the boy, who had edged closer to Montana to stand trembling with fear.
“I’m not asking your pedigree,” Montana flung back softly. “And I don’t aim to have any roaring bull like you prying into mine. Come on, buddy.” He drew the boy up beside him and pushed him ahead into the saloon. “We came into this town to eat, if you recollect.”
“Hold on!” the big puncher rasped. “What brat is that?”
Once the lad was safely behind the swinging doors, Montana spun about.
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you, walloper?” he taunted in a voice that even those nearest now strained to catch. “If it’s causing you any particular worry, find out!”
The snarl of a beast left the puncher’s thick lips. He bounded toward the swinging doors to pull up short, weaving drunkenly on his feet, gloved hands still hooked in his cartridge belt. The onlookers crowded back, opening a lane between the two.
“For the last time, jasper,” he bellowed, “I’m demanding to know your name and the name of that brat!”
Livid flame leaped into Montana’s eyes. His smile broadened, froze.
“And for the last time,” he mocked, “I’m telling you—it’s none of your business!”
The retort threw the big cowboy into a rage. Montana gauged him with a coldly glittering eye. The onlookers stood rooted in their tracks.
The puncher made a threatening gesture toward his forty-fives. Montana leaped squarely in front of the doors, jerked straight. His hand shot down—a movement so swift it baffled sight. The crowd, which had stood on the deadline of tragedy before, sensed rather than saw that movement, plunged to safety.
The corners of Montana’s braced lips quirked. His Colt came from nowhere into his ungloved hand. The muzzle jerked up. The big fellow’s forty-fives seemed to freeze on the rims of their holsters. A nervous foot scraped explosively.
“You’re asking for it, walloper,” Montana purred “And you’re detaining two hungry pilgrims from dining. We haven’t et since the Lord knows when. We’re going to eat now. You get it, pardner. It’s your move. Fast!”
A sound rumbled in the big puncher’s throat. His leathery face became saffron. Slowly his guns settled back into their holsters. His gloved hands jerked away moved into the air.
“You can’t come into Elbar and yank a gun on me,” he snarled.
“So I see,” Montana flung back softly. “Now lay off your bellyaching. Sober up and come back. If you still feel like hunting trouble, I’ll be around somewhere. Shag it, jasper!”
“I’ll get you for this.” The big cowboy backed down the walk.
“Any time,” Montana threw after him. “And if I’ve finished my business and left your peaceful little village you can always find me on the Yellowstone.”
Sputtering with rage, the big fellow whirled and stamped away, spur rowels raking the plank wall angrily. Montana slid his Colt back into its holster to stand facing the onlookers, who, one by one, slunk away, leaving him alone with the boy, who came trembling from behind the swinging doors.
“Now that’s what I call a royal welcome to this enterprising little city, buddy,” Montana said grimly.
“Gosh, that was great,” Clem blurted out with childish admiration. “You sure did call the turn and make that feller eat crow. When I grow up I want to be just like you. Wasn’t you scared of him?”
“It doesn’t make any difference how big you are Button,” Montana said soberly. “It’s guts that gets you through. That walloper could eat me up feathers and all in a rough and tumble.”
“But with a gun,” the boy breathed. “Look how you covered him.”
“Being fast with a gun isn’t anything to admire in any man, kid. Don’t ever tote one. Then you won’t ever have any reason to use it, mebbeso do something you’ll be sorry for.”
“But if you hadn’t of had yours?” the lad persisted.
“That jasper wouldn’t have done a thing more than he did. You can tell grade stuff from pure bred every time. That walloper is plumb low grade. The only thing I’m regretting is that he has kept us from eating this long.” Turning abruptly, he secured their horses, tied them to the hitchrail and started off down the street. A few paces and he stopped. “Here we are, buddy,” he said. “Mother Hope’s Cafe. Here’s where we throw a slug under our belts.”
He opened the door of a neat appearing little restaurant to the clang of a bell overhead and stepped within, the lad crowding his heels. The place was deserted. Moving to the lunch counter, Montana straddled a stool, picked up a menu card and fell to studying it. The boy followed suit. Presently they were aware that someone had come in quietly from the kitchen in the rear.
“What’ll it be, buddy?” Montana asked, still engrossed in the bill-of-fare.
“Ham and—” the youngster began eagerly.
“That’s the ticket,” Montana exclaimed, eyes still downcast. “All the ham and eggs in Elbar, cookie,” he ordered. “And a son-of-a-gun pudding with a ton of raisins served in relays for two hungry Montana wolves who haven’t et since they were pups. We’re so danged hungry our—” He glanced up to meet the amused eyes of a girl upon him.
“I—I—” he blurted out, flushing. “I reckon we’ll take two orders of ham and eggs, miss,” he repeated lamely. “And—”
“Son-of-a-gun pudding served in relays for two hungry Montana wolves,” she smiled. “I got your order, mister.”
She moved away to the kitchen. Montana’s embarrassed gaze followed her.
CHAPTER THREE
LOW-DOWN ON TROUBLE
For a time after the girl had gone into the kitchen, Montana stared after her in moody silence. He could catch glimpses of her moving about, hear her talking to an elderly woman he could see bending over a stove, and whose voice rose above the sudden sizzle of frying ham.
Occasionally the girl turned to surprise his eyes upon her. His gaze shifted quickly in embarrassment.
But in the sly glances he had at her she reminded him somehow of a rose in her freshly-starched pink house dress and spotless apron of white. Her even features were framed in a mass of auburn hair that lay in tiny ringlets on her forehead. Her eyes were large and brown and frank, fringed with long dark lashes that accentuated their wistful beauty. Her face glowed with healthy color. The prettiest, most interesting face he ever had seen, Montana decided. Her hands, too, he noted, were finely formed, delicate yet strong and capable as they moved about preparing the food. Her movements were graceful, supple with the freshness, the strength of youth.
He found himself wondering what her name was. The sign over the door—Mother Hope’s Cafe—could the large woman in calico bending over the stove be Mother Hope? And the girl? There was something of a resemblance. Hard work and care that had seamed the older face had failed to erase all trace of its former beauty.
He tore his gaze away from her presently to regard the boy who sat beside him staring into the street, deserted again after the brief stir of excitement precipitated by their arrival.
“Sonny,” he said thoughtfully, “that big jasper I locked horns with thinks he knows me. I saw it in his eyes. And he thinks he knows you, too. But I’ll swear I never met up with him before. Are you dead sure you’ve never been a
round here?”
“Honest,” the boy replied. “Seemed to me that he thought he knew me, too. But I never saw him. He’s just mistaking us for somebody else.”
“Mebbeso. Either that or he’s so drunk he figures we’re long-lost cousins or something. He—”
“Much obliged for helping me, stranger,” came a voice at his shoulder.
Montana broke off his conversation to whirl on his stool. Behind him stood the wizened man he had picked up in the street, and who obviously had entered the cafe through the kitchen.
“Shucks.” Montana smiled in a friendly fashion. “I didn’t help you any. Sit down and have a bite to eat with us. We’ve ordered all the ham and eggs in town. It’s your last chance till the hens lay again.”
“No, thanks. But I’ll pull up and talk for a spell if you don’t mind.” The old man seated himself beside Montana where he could keep an anxious eye on the door. “I’m Joe Lewis from over Cutbank way. And I’m giving you a tip—be mighty careful while you’re in Elbar.”
“’Pears like it might stand a feller in hand,” Montana returned. “The gents I’ve met up with so far don’t seem to be just what you’d call friendly.”
“The walloper you tied into isn’t friendly to anybody,” the old fellow growled, peering at Montana closely. “You’ve made a deadly enemy of him. He’ll get even or bust something trying.”
“So I figure,” dryly. “Who is he—the mayor or sheriff? The way he’s all rigged up in those fancy store clothes he looks like a circus buckaroo.”
“It’s Smokey Tremaine!” Lewis said in a lowered tone as though utterance of the name itself was forbidden.
“Smokey Tremaine!” Montana repeated. “Now what am I supposed to do, bust out in a cold sweat or leave town?”
“Smokey is foreman of the Diamond A—the biggest cow outfit in Thunder Basin.”
“Reckon I’d better steer clear of the Diamond A then,” mockingly. “But if I do it won’t be because of—” He stopped as the girl came from the kitchen with a trayload of steaming food. He attempted not to stare, but for all he could do his eyes had a way of straying to her as she placed the plates before them. “Coffee?” she was asking.
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