“Strange he could do that without Cousins’s consent,” Whitey mused.
“There’s a joker somewhere,” the puncher said. “But the talk that’s going the rounds must have some foundation. There’s a rumor that some commission house in Omaha has got Kent cornered; that he’s come to a point where he can’t turn any way. Then this drought is cutting the calf crop down to nothing. I overheard him telling Smokey the other morning that unless the commission house would extend his paper with the payment of a little interest money that he’d be cleaned out slicker than a whistle come fall shipping time.”
“So that’s what’s worrying him?” Whitey observed. “But it’s a danged funny setup, how Cousins comes into it. But it seems there’s something else, too.”
“There is, the puncher said. “But I can’t get head nor tail to it. I’m riding with Smokey the other day, dozing. Kent loped up. They go to auguring, me acting like I’m too near asleep to notice. Kent begins cussing and telling Smokey that somebody is rustling from him. Smokey says he knows it and he’s gunning for the jaspers.
“Now I turns that over in my head. I’m plumb educated on this Diamond A stuff. And likewise I know the T6’s and the rest of them. I’m working the herd and I’m danged sure there aren’t any of our critters missing. Course, it’s no secret that somebody has been stealing the Diamond A ragged for months; detectives have tried to get the low-down. No results. But right now I can’t see where there’s a critter missing from the day herd.” He shifted sidewise in his saddle to stare at Whitey.
“It’s got me guessing, feller. We’ve about decided the worry and the heat are too much for Kent—and Tremaine, too. I’ve heard tell of a jasper getting a bee in his bonnet like this rustling one of King’s and going plumb loco in hot weather with it.”
“There are no Diamond A’s missing,” Whitey said definitely. “Well, so long, jasper. When the time is ripe I’ll spring this job with another spread on you. Bui keep it under your hat.”
He roweled away, leaving the puncher gazing after him, a puzzled expression on his face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A SURPRISING THREAT
By the first week in July the heat had become almost unbearable in Thunder Basin. Each day was the same—dawn lifting along the rim of the prairies in a burst of flame. Mirages sprang up on the sagebrush flats, great undulating lakes of water that drove the sweltering men almost to the point of madness. The heat waves shimmering upward from the prairies blinded them. Dust scuffed up by the leaden hoofs of the pawing, thirsty cattle hung over the hats in a choking blanket, filling the eyes and noses of the weary cowboys, powdering their grimy, sweat-streaked laces with glistening particles of alkali and gyp and making breath itself an effort.
Day after day they rode their circles and worked the day herd grimly, doggedly. Gone long since was their laughter and song. They did their tasks mechanically, half dead with heat and thirst. Their nerves were raw and jumpy, dangerously near the snapping point. They grew surly, stubborn, resentful. Fights, which but for timely interference might have ended tragically, sprang up over trifles. Such was the hair-trigger temper of the crew that even the abusive Tremaine ceased his persecution to avoid a clash. But not so King Kent. His biting tongue kept the camp in a constant turmoil. He dared not turn his back for fear some of the cowboys, prey to the reckless impulses that had taken hold upon them, would drop him in his tracks.
Then, after an endless period of heat, thirst, flies, and trouble, the wagon swung around and started back up Tongue River in the direction of the Diamond A ranch. Hopeful of rest and water, the men shook off their apathy and began to liven up. The cows and bleating calves, too, seemed to know that somewhere ahead lay rest and feed.
When the camp was but a few hours’ drive from the Diamond A the climax came. It was at breakfast time. The cowboys were seated cross-legged on the ground, eating. Since dawn King Kent and Smokey Tremaine had been engaged in heated conversation on a hogback overlooking the bedground. When, finally, they started toward the camp it was evident from their angry strides that some new blow was about to fall.
“The roundup is over, jaspers,” Kent announced as he came up. “Tomorrow we will be home. So we’re going to thresh out some things here and now. We’ve had a rustler with us. He has stolen us ragged all during the roundup. One among you has been doing that stealing. I’m going to start at the head of the list. And I’m telling you, you’d better come clean. Who did that rustling?”
A dead hush fell on the men. Frightened glances flew between them. They cast furtive looks at Kent, who stood, thumbs hooked in his cartridge belt, face merciless and brutal. Behind him hovered Tremaine, his lips twisted in a snarl. Not a puncher dared to move-save one. Whitey Hope, who that morning had been singularly quiet, so engrossed in his meal he had scarcely glanced up. But now he got to his feet to eye the pair coldly.
“You say there has been rustling, Kent?” he inquired casually. “What has been stolen?”
“Critters!” the cowman bawled. “What did you think?”
“Were they slicks?” the cowboy asked.
“Partly.”
“Diamond A’s?”
“No!”
“T6’s?”
“No!”
“Bridle Bits?”
“No!”
“Car Links?”
“No!”
“Then what the hell has it been?”
Kent flew into a rage.
“The jasper who did it knows!” he thundered. “And he’d better come clean. We’ve got our suspicions who did it. Whitey Hope, you’d better tell!”
From that point on things happened with such an amazing speed the men never were just sure what did occur. A soft crooning sound issued from between the cowboy’s set lips. He sent a cup of hot coffee flying as he leaped back. His hand fluttered down and up. Clutched in nerveless fingers was his forty-five to menace both Kent and Tremaine.
“All right, jaspers,” he said in a voice that was deadly in its coolness. “As long as Kent wants me to tell what has been happening, I’ll sure do it. There is stuff missing from the night herd. It disappeared on the graveyard watch. It was—”
“Say it and I’ll kill you,” Tremaine roared.
“With me holding the edge?” the cowboy taunted softly. “Why you back-shooting—You’ve tried it before, and failed.” Something in the tone, brought every man to his feet to stand tense. “I told you I’d tell what stuff was missing. You asked for it. They’re Buzzards!”
“You’re a liar!” Kent bawled. “You can’t make rustlers out of us.”
“No? I’ve got your number Kent—you and Tremaine. You were slick. But not slick enough. That proposition of you gathering those Buzzards was sprung on you knowing you would fall for it hook, line, and sinker. And you did, Kent, better than was even figured. You gave your men orders not to pick up a Buzzard. Why? So you and Tremaine could pick them up yourselves! You’ve branded the slicks and run over some of the she-stuff brands. You threw them into the night herd under cover of darkness!”
“You lie!” Kent bellowed, starting to back away. “I’ll—I’ll—”
“You’ll stand and take it,” the cowboy cried, sending a bullet to lick up a furrow of dust at the feet of the two. “I’m r’aring to shoot—and I’ll get both of you if you make one move toward those guns of yours.”
“Show me any Buzzards!” Kent roared. “Prove what you’re saying. If there is a Buzzard in this herd I’ll—”
“You’d win the money on a bet like that, jasper,” the puncher returned cooly. “Because there aren’t any. We saw to that. We rustled them out of the herd on the graveyard guard as fast as you threw them in.”
“You’re a liar!” Kent cried. “You never left the herd. We watched you night after night.”
“Right again. I never did leave the herd. I knew you were watching. But the Buzzard
s were cut back just the same. You and Tremaine were followed every day on circle, and the bunches you gathered spotted. You were watched when you threw them into the night herd.”
“You couldn’t of done it alone, you lying fourflusher,” Kent screamed, losing all control of himself. “Even if they were there you couldn’t have done it alone.”
“So that’s what’s been chewing on you?” the cowboy smiled grimly. “That’s what has been keeping you in a sweat and a stew? You knew the stolen stuff was being stolen again as fast as it went into the herd. But smart as you think you are, you couldn’t just figure out how. Well, I’ll tell you, jasper. I had help—help of one of the best men this range has ever seen. Whitey Hope!”
“Whitey Hope?” Kent blinked “Why, you idiot, you’re loco! You’re Whitey Hope.”
“Just for the time being,” the cowboy grinned. “If you’d have had any sense you’d have seen through this play. But I picked you for a big-headed ass; and you’re double that. I’m Whitey’s build, I’ve got light hair. But his eyes are blue. Take a look at mine, jasper. They’re gray.
“You jailed the Buzzard men, scared them off the range. We didn’t dare come out in the open. You can’t fight snakes in the open. Besides, you were too many for us—too crooked. We didn’t have the men to gather the Buzzards. So we let you gather them. You and Tremaine and Hartzell there. And we took three Diamond A’s for every Buzzard you’d stolen. They’re over there now in the reserve. On pasture, Kent, feeding and drinking and doing fine. And Whitey is with them.”
“You’re crazy!” Kent bellowed. “Drop him, one of you jaspers, quick. Whitey has gone off his head in this heat. He’ll kill somebody.”
“Oh, no, Whitey Hope isn’t off his head. He’s riding herd on a nice bunch of Buzzards forty miles from here.”
“But I gave a job to Whitey Hope.” A hoarse note deadened Kent’s voice.
“Sure, you did. And Whitey has been here working day after day. And then again—”
“Who are you?” Kent gasped.
“Montana Ellis.” The puncher ripped off his hat. “And it took a hell of a supply of flour to make my hair look as white as Whitey’s. But I did it, jasper, did it because I knew you were too damned blind to see anything. Whitey worked days. I stood his guard at night while he cut out the spotted critters.”
“I thought you were dead!” Kent choked, cringing as though before a ghost. “You were drowned that—that night.”
“The night you stampeded our stuff and burned our camp,” Montana lashed out. “Not by a hell of a sight, I wasn’t. I was down at the Dunning place feeding myself. It was only one of Whitey’s tricks. You had us cornered. We were outlaws in the eye of the law, thanks to you. You’d framed us in Elbar. We figured a dead man could do more against you crooks than we could in the open.”
He stopped to sweep the dumfounded faces about him. The grin broadened at sight of the incredulity in their eyes.
“Now we’re two hundred Buzzards short, Kent. That is the number lost in the river during the stampede. We’ll just take Diamond A’s to make up the difference. Thanks for gathering our stuff. I’ve hung the Injun sign on both you and Tremaine. You’re jail bait the second your sheriff ever tries to serve that phony warrant for me. And whether or not he does you’re heading for the pen just as soon as I get one more thing done I’ve set out to do.” He backed away toward his horse, climbed into the saddle, his gun still bearing down upon them menacingly. Once Kent, his face working with apoplectic fury, tried to speak. Again the Colt spoke, again to slice a furrow in the dirt beside him.
“That other thing I’m going to uncover,” Montana was saying as he jerked his horse backward out of range. “That is who killed Pop Masterson. When I get the lowdown sewed up so tight you can’t pit your money against it, I’m coming for you, Kent—you and Tremaine.” He whirled his horse and was gone into a dry ravine.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SECRET MESSAGE
Word of the sudden appearance of Montana in the Diamond A roundup crew threw Thunder Basin into a ferment of excitement. And word of the challenge the cowboy—long since thought dead—had hurled at King Kent and Smokey Tremaine, set the region to buzzing with apprehension.
In the maze of events that followed swiftly one on another the citizens could scarcely keep up with the rumors. The sheriff, against Kent’s orders it was whispered, started on the trail of Montana, still wanted on a false charge of murdering Masterson. Scarcely had he ridden out of town when Sally Hope returned from Omaha. And with her was the boy, Clem White, a bright-eyed youngster presenting an entirely different appearance in his new “store” clothes.
A lone cowboy met the evening train as it ground to a halt at Elbar. Some who glimpsed him in the twilight dusk said it was the girl’s brother, Whitey Hope. Others said it was Montana himself. No one knew. Nobody cared to investigate. And for that reason the scene at the station went unobserved by prying eyes. The cowboy had ridden into Elbar and down the street with never a challenge. He led a spare horse, saddled, fitted with new trappings—spangled leather to delight the heart of any youngster. Swinging down at the station, he tied his horses and nervously paced the deserted platform.
As the train rolled in and stopped he started along the coaches. Presently he sighted the girl, garbed in a chic suit that brought out every line of her trim figure. Once she had assisted the youngster to alight, she spied him, came forward on a run to throw herself into his arms and kiss him. She clung to him for an instant before she tore herself away with a startled little cry. A sputtering sound came from the man.
“I’m pleased to see you home, Miss Sally,” he blurted out.
“Oh,” she said, the gloom hiding the flush of her blazing face. “I thought you were—Whitey. My, how you two look alike. I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?” Clem cried, seizing hold of the cowboy’s arm and clinging to him. “Gosh, Montana, you kissed Sally.”
“Hush, Clem,” Sally reprimanded. “Didn’t Whitey or—”
“Whitey’s tied up with the stock,” Montana apologized. “I told your ma I’d meet you. Besides, I was kind of anxious to see Button, here. I’ve sure missed—”
“Oh!” The girl picked up her suitcase and started along the platform.
“I’ll tote it,” Montana urged, falling in beside her. “Then Clem and I will light out for the ranch. You don’t need to get huffy just because—”
“I’m not,” she snapped. “And I can handle my own suitcase.” She seized the boy and kissed him. “I suppose you’re going with—with your friend now,” she said. “I know he’ll take good care of you. Don’t forget to wash your teeth. Your brush is in your grip.”
“But I want to thank you for tending to that business for me in Omaha,” Montana protested. “Getting those papers and all. And looking out for Button. It was mighty fine of you—”
“That was no trouble at all,” she said tartly, starting away to leave him standing staring at her.
“Wouldn’t that beat you?” Montana muttered to the youngster, who was enjoying the procedure hugely. “I guess I don’t understand women.”
“I guess you don’t,” Clem said. “Especially women like Sally. She’s in a class by herself, Montana. But gosh, she kissed you. I should think—”
“Shut up. Give me your grip. Get moving!” Montana snapped. “The horses are right behind the depot.”
The boy fell in beside him. The preoccupied Montana scarcely noticed the exclamations of delight from Clem as he discovered and swung into his brand new saddle. Nor did he speak as they rode out of town, although he did pull rein at the tracks and gaze back until a trim little figure with a suitcase had disappeared into Mother Hope’s Cafe.
“The dangedest thing ever I heard of,” Montana mused aloud as they headed out onto the open flats toward the Dunning place. “Just because of a mistake and a girl kisses the wr
ong man—”
“You liked it, didn’t you?” Clem taunted.
Montana made no reply. The boy’s words had struck home. He had liked it, far more than he would admit to himself. To receive a kiss intended for another was what rankled. She had thought—“Well, it won’t take us long to clean up, now,” he said shortly, tearing his mind from the meeting. “Tomorrow we’ll light out together and deliver that letter to Al Cousins. Then there’s one more thing. Quick as we get that settled up we’ll get out of this danged Thunder Basin.”
“What’s wrong with Thunder Basin?” Clem asked. “Gosh, I’ve been looking forward to coming back and staying here. Just because Sally got a little mad isn’t going to drive you—”
“My leaving Thunder Basin has nothing to do with Miss Hope,” Montana growled. “I’d intended to go as quick as we could without showing yaller anyhow.”
Silence fell between them as the ponies picked their way across the flats, drenched now with a silver haze from a great full moon that was starting its climb above the eastern horizon.
And again silence settled down upon the rumors and gossiping tongues in Thunder Basin, the panting citizens marking time until the next big event, the annual Diamond A rodeo, to break the monotony of life in the seared and withered country. Then finally after days of blazing heat that wilted man and beast, rodeo day dawned.
* * * *
The sun lifting along the rim of the greasewood in a fling of vivid color, found the Two Montanas, united again, riding out in Thunder Basin bound at last to deliver the letter to Al Cousins. The morning was glorious and calm, forerunner of a typical prairie day when man feels his insignificance in the hugeness of nature. To the north, deceptively near, the Big Horn mountains reared their snow-crowned helms into a mass of fleecy white clouds. To the south, east, and west the flats stretched away, hazy and indistinct through their veil of purple. Box buttes and divides stood out like etchings, their outline growing dimmer with distance until they melted into the deeper purple of the horizon. Here and there a bull pawed dust and bawled his challenge to prowling range herds. Rabbits scurried away to belly down on their holes, ready to duck to cover. Meadowlarks teetered in the tops of the sagebrush, whistling their gayest. Far overhead a hawk wheeled lazily in the flawless heavens.
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