The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  “You didn’t gouge out an eye, did you?” Tremaine snarled. “If you did—”

  “Hell, no,” Whitey grinned. “He didn’t pitch hard enough for me to connect with his eye. Much obliged for this rough string, Smokey. I always like a horse with life. I reckon if this one is a fair sample the others ought to be danged fine riding.”

  A roar of laughter went up from the watching punchers. Tremaine Hushed angrily and strode away.

  Days passed. Blistering hot days with countless flies and gnats that goaded the gaunt cattle to a frenzy. Searing, scorching days that set man and beast to scouring the country for water and shade. Yet water there was none save the greenish, insect-laden pools that stunk along the parched bed of the river. When the thirsty, bawling brutes did get a whiff of the tepid water, stampedes were narrowly averted.

  The mornings on circle were not so hard on the men, who loped out in the cool of dawn, a snappy new horse with a hump in its back and fighting the bit beneath them. But as the blazing sun rose higher in the heavens and the heat increased, they began to wilt. Then even conversation became an effort.

  Working the day herd in the sweltering heat and dust of the afternoon was enough to test the mettle of any man. But through it all Whitey, by now—to the chagrin of Tremaine—complete master of the rough string, held up his end. While they could not but admire his horsemanship, the Diamond A punchers, still smarting under the taunts he had forced them to swallow the morning after the Buzzard stampede, and remembering the threats he had made, regarded him with suspicion and had little to do with him.

  Not so Smokey Tremaine. The wagon boss loaded him with useless labors. Whitey seemed not to mind. He did his work without complaint, although his keen-edged tongue kept Smokey in a constant fit of temper.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  STRANGE ROUNDUP

  Then one morning on circle, after he had been with the pool roundup crew for a week, Whitey Hope ran onto several wild Diamond A’s. Try as he would to bunch them, the fly-crazed brutes persisted in breaking. He soon had his horse in a lather in his attempt to gather them, but they finally broke away from him completely and started off across the flats. Determined to overtake them, or play out his horse trying, he started in pursuit.

  Coming onto a hogback, he pulled rein suddenly, dragged his pony back from sight in the jutting rim-rock, dismounted and dropped on all fours. Directly below in a ravine were Smokey Tremaine and King Kent driving a small herd of cattle.

  “It isn’t often a fellow sees the boss and the foreman riding circle,” he mused to himself, sprawling out on his belly to watch. “They ought to be down around the noon camp somewhere. It’s funny, with all the men they hire, they still haven’t enough to handle their stuff.”

  Curious to know what the two were about, he worked his way stealthily along the hogback to a thicket of greasewood near the end of the draw down which the two were headed. There he concealed himself, waited motionless. The bunch of cattle came on slowly. Then the brutes were directly beneath him. He started at sight of the brands. Buzzards! With an effort he held back the laughter that crowded to his lips, managed somehow to lie quietly until the two had passed on with the herd.

  “The damned thieving wallopers,” he chuckled as he crawled back to his horse. “Oh, no, King Kent won’t rustle.” Pulling his pony from sight on the other side of the rimrock, he swung into the saddle. “I reckon my little scheme is working out just like I figured it would. He wouldn’t trust me to go in cahoots with him. But he put it up to Smokey. Those two are going to steal the Buzzard ragged; after giving the men orders not to pick up a single head. Well, I’ll just nip their little game right now.” With not so much as a look at the pick-ups he himself had been trailing, he whirled his horse and roweled away in the direction opposite to that which the two had taken.

  The blazing sun crossed the zenith, started its downward course. The cook, still nursing a grudge against Whitey for wrecking his outfit the morning Black Spirit had pitched through camp, held dinner an hour for the puncher. Then, cursing savagely, he threw it out and washed up the dishes.

  The panting punchers worked the day herd on the flats above Tongue River without Whitey. The alkali dust stirred up by pounding hoofs rolled away into the flaming sky to settle back in a suffocating blanket, powdering the perspiring crew from head to foot and glistening in the stubble on their grimy faces. Nervous, high-strung cutting ponies were bathed in lather. Ropers missed a throw to sit for several seconds in their saddles, cursing. Then they coiled their lariats and threw again. A bawling calf would run to the end of the rope, crash in a somersault and blat raucously as it was snaked up beside the branding-fire.

  There the half-naked wrestlers would seize hold of the brute. But the sun had sapped their strength. They were forced to grapple with it where ordinarily they would have upset it in a twinkling and pounced upon it. The voice of the tallyman was thick and hoarse. The iron man bent over his chip fire, face blistered, streaming perspiration. When he started with an iron he moved with faltering steps. The branders, too, took the cherry-hot irons mechanically, and slapped the brand on any old way to have done with it.

  Lower and lower sank the brassy sun to shroud the prairies in dancing, shimmering waves of heat. Still no Whitey. Tremaine cursed and threatened. Kent joined him with vehemence. The weasel-faced Hartzell, more or less a pariah, held his tongue.

  It was almost evening when Whitey finally did show up with a small bunch of cattle and his horse splattered with foam. Smokey saw him coming and met him with a stream of oaths. In characteristic manner the cowboy waited until the wagon boss had cursed himself out before he spoke.

  “These critters were wilder than jacks,” Whitey offered apologetically. “They put in the whole day looking for something to get scared at; and they found just plenty—their own shadows mostly. But I stuck with them, brought them in. I figured that was what I was riding circle for.”

  “Of course it’s what you’re riding circle for,” Tremaine snarled. “But if you aren’t cowhand enough to gather a lousy little bunch like this in a whole day I’ll get somebody who is.”

  “Do you reckon you could have done any better with them running from heel flies?” Whitey demanded.

  “They don’t look to me like they’ve run,” Smokey threw back. “They’re not sweating—I mean—”

  “Did you ever see a critter sweat?” Whitey shot in, giving Tremaine no chance to finish. “If you do find one sweating excepting on the flanks and behind the ears let me know, will you. I want it for a museum. It would take the honor away from the blood-sweating—” He dismounted, turned his back on the furious Tremaine to begin unsaddling his horse.

  Now the waiting punchers were certain the ever-nearing crisis between the two had come. But to their amazement Tremaine again swallowed his rage and strode away. Thus the thing passed with Whitey, as usual, the victor. But the whole crew knew that Smokey was but biding his time. And from then on it was apparent that he had set out with new determination to force the cowboy to start for his gun. But while the men expected the blow to fall that evening they were doomed to disappointment. Whitey idled about, seemingly oblivious to the nerve-racking tension. Smokey spent his time talking with Kent, or in sullen silence.

  Nor had his disposition improved by morning. He swilled his steaming coffee and wolfed his food. Kent, too, looked like a thundercloud. Ever careful not to roil either of the two until they had breakfasted, the punchers ate in silence. When he had finished, Kent threw his plate and cup at the feet of the startled cook, arose, and strode angrily toward the rope corrals. Tremaine followed shortly. Hartzell, his eyes plainly showing his curiosity, sat and stared.

  “What the hell is eating those two?” demanded one of the men in an undertone. “They’ve been auguring ever since they got up.”

  “You’ll find out plenty soon enough,” another answered. “Neither one of the gents are the
kind to keep anything to themselves very long. Reckon it is going to pop right now!” as Kent wheeled suddenly and started to retrace his steps.

  “Who all was on guard last night?” Kent demanded of Smokey as they came within earshot.

  “Charley and Riley and Whitey. He was on the graveyard watch.”

  “Whitey,” Kent said in a loud voice. “Did you see anything suspicious on your guard last night?”

  “Nope.” Whitey helped himself to another cup of coffee. “Critters plumb peaceful. Unusually so. Tuckered out with the heat probably. Not even a coyote yipped. Why? Something missing?”

  Kent and Tremaine exchanged quick glances.

  “Well—” Kent checked himself abruptly.

  “Well, what?” Whitey encouraged.

  “Somebody is working in this herd!” Kent blurted out.

  “Rustlers!” The word ran in a whisper around the group.

  “What makes you think so?” Whitey alone had the temerity to ask. “Missed any stuff?”

  “Yes.” Kent snapped off the word.

  “Diamond A’s?”

  Again Kent and Tremaine exchanged quick glances, but neither spoke.

  “It wasn’t on my guard. Nothing surer than that,” Whitey announced. “I’ll stake the ace every head of Diamond A’s that I took over are out there on the flat right now.”

  “Diamond A’s aren’t the only brands in this herd,” Kent shot out. “There are T6’s and—”

  “There’s everything on Thunder Basin except Buzzards when you come right down to that,” Whitey cut in. “But I’m saying to you that there isn’t a single head of the brands we’re handling missing. Of course, you weren’t looking for other stuff, were you?” He captured Kent’s gaze for a moment, held it.

  “You’re damned right there are no Buzzards in our herd!” the cowman flared up. “And it will be tough on the jasper who runs any in, too.” For an instant longer he stared at Whitey as though trying to read the cowboy’s thoughts. But Whitey’s eyes were as expressionless as his face, although the barest trace of a smile seemed to be struggling at the corners of his mouth.

  “You don’t need to pick me out to stare at when you caution against picking up Buzzards,” he amazed Kent and the whole crew by saying. “I’m working for the Diamond A. I’m not gathering Buzzards. But supposing—just supposing a man did get one of those blackballed critters by mistake. What would the penalty be?” The question was put in a tone of serious interest. Yet it brought a dull flush to the faces of Kent and Tremaine.

  “I’ll kill the jasper who picks up a Buzzard,” Tremaine snarled before Kent had a chance to reply. “Get that, walloper? I’ll kill the jasper who brings a Buzzard critter into this herd.”

  Whitey got to his feet, slapped the dust from his chaps, straightened the cartridge belt at his waist and sauntered away toward the rope corral. His whole attitude was defiant, his deliberate, studied movements an impudent challenge.

  Tremaine chewed his lips with rage. Once his gloved hands slid toward his guns. Whitey whirled at the instant to face him, his own thumbs resting easily in his cartridge belt. The punchers stared in blank amazement. Incredulous as it seemed, Whitey Hope again had defied Smokey Tremaine and gotten away with it!

  But they had no time to ponder the unbelievable thing for Smokey wheeled on them savagely, cursing them for wasting time over their meals and threatening to discharge them all if they did not start out on circle earlier in the morning. His fury lashed them to action. They left their eating to secure their mounts and ride away. The looks they cast at Tremaine were black with hatred. For the first time there was open admiration in the glances they gave the unperturbed and grinning Whitey.

  But once away from camp, Whitey dropped his nonchalant air. Instead of continuing with his companion circle rider on the route he had been allotted, he gave some excuse for falling behind. Dismounting quickly, he dropped into a ravine. There he lay in the stifling heat, watching the camp through the shimmering waves of heat that rose from the flats like rays from a griddle.

  After the wagons had been loaded and had started their careening course down the river toward the noon camp, two riders mounted and rode back on the trail along which the roundup had moved the day before. When they had dropped from sight over a hogback, Whitey swung up, circled the camp site and took in after them. Always he kept a safe distance behind them to escape detection, although at times he was close enough to see them gesticulating wildly in their talk. And their gestures brought a broad grin to his lips.

  By mid-forenoon the two had picked up several head of cattle, which they threw into a deep draw. Each prowling range bunch was worked and the cut driven on, bunched together. By noonday the pair had gathered some twenty head. As quickly as they had started for camp, Whitey galloped to the critters they had left behind in the ravine. As he had expected they were Buzzards! “Oh, no, King Kent won’t rustle,” he mused aloud, eyeing the animals, which lifted their heads from their grazing at his approach, snorted and ran off a short distance to stare inquisitively. “I should say not!”

  Having satisfied himself as to what the two were about, Whitey turned back and loped across the flats. Sometime later, he rejoined his companion circle rider and helped him in with the drive.

  Days passed thus. The monotonous drag of circle riding, working the herd, bedding down the thirsty brutes, trying to sleep out under the stars that glowed white hot in a seething heaven—which even darkness failed to cool—reduced the punchers to automatons. Tremaine became even more brutal and surly than before. Hartzell had little or nothing to say; in fact, absented himself as much as possible from the camp, which had become little more than a melting pot of rebellion.

  King Kent seemed suddenly to have lost all control of himself. He was constantly prowling about among the men, firing at them questions they did not understand and heaping abuse upon their heads until they were all on the point of quitting.

  “It’s the heat,” one of the punchers remarked one morning as he watched Kent, pacing nervously back and forth between the camp and the rope corral. “The heat’s got him; and the drought is playing hell with his calf crop. Old Kent isn’t sitting so well, you know. That last deal of Smokey’s cost him heavy. They say he had to slap another mortgage on the Diamond A to get Tremaine out of it.”

  “What deal was that?” Whitey, who chanced to be near, inquired casually.

  The man shot him a withering glance and fell silent.

  But he had said enough to arouse suspicion. Whitey met him later on circle a few miles from the camp.

  “That crack you made about Kent being down to bedrock and having to put more paper on his ranch to get Tremaine out of a scrape?” he asked carelessly “You were referring to that Masterson deal, weren’t you?”

  “I haven’t forgotten you were against us in that play jasper.” The puncher eyed him coldly. “I don’t trust you overmuch. What is it to you what I mean?”

  “Just curiosity, I reckon,” Whitey returned good naturedly. “I didn’t mean to be prying. But as long as I’m working for the Diamond A I’d like to know how sure my check was. I got a tip from a jasper a while back about a good job coming up during beef roundup. I figured if I could get a few of you fellows, who know Kent’s financial standing, to stick with me we’d give him the go-by this fall and throw in with a real spread.”

  The man pricked up his ears.

  “Are you telling me straight?” he demanded. “Or are you talking through your hat?”

  “I don’t reckon I’d be making cracks like that if I couldn’t back them up, would I?” Whitey shot back “Of course, I’m telling you straight. If King Kent is getting cornered by this drought and isn’t going to be able to pay wages, come fall, I know where a bunch of real cowhands can bed down at a sizable increase with an outfit that has plenty of money.”

  “What spread is it?” the punch
er asked.

  “I asked you a question,” Whitey evaded. “You told me it was none of my business. I didn’t care a damn about an answer to it, because I reckon it wasn’t any of my business. But I’m not trading information with any jasper who isn’t plumb willing to trade with me.”

  “What was it you wanted to know?” the cowboy asked in a more civil tone.

  “What is eating King Kent? I understand you and Tremaine have been having trouble; I figured you might have caught on to something.”

  “Damn Tremaine,” the puncher blurted out. “Everybody has trouble with him. You seem to be the only one who has hung the Injun sign on him. I’ll tell you what is eating Kent—and Smokey too. Kent’s down to bedrock. I’ve got a hunch he’s pulled a lot of his dirty tricks without his partner, Al Cousins, knowing about it. And old Al isn’t a man to stand for much—if he gets wise.

  “Tremaine did that Masterson killing, sure as the devil. Although he has always stuck to it that he didn’t. But the coroner got a wad of dough out of it just the same; and I reckon the sheriff and the county attorney’s palms were greased a-plenty to drop things the way they did.

  “The whole rotten deal was laid on that Montana jasper. And it’s just the luck Kent and Tremaine always play in, that Montana up and got killed. That settled things as far as they were concerned—wiped their slates plumb clean, thanks to the crooked officers in Elbar.

  “But there’s a report going around that before Kent learned about Montana he slapped more paper on the ranch to get ready cash.”