The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  In silence the Two Montanas rode, their ponies pushing mile after mile behind them with amazing ease, each seemingly content with his own thoughts, the boy’s admiring gaze always fixed on the cowboy. But Big Montana was sunk in thought that took no notice of time or distance, although his steel-gray eyes were ever whipping the flats. Constantly recurring thought of the girl as he had seen her at the train had affected him strangely. Sally Hope—Sally Hope. He had had little time to think of her during the winter months. But now—that kiss—the short moment she had been in his arms—Sally Hope. Even her name seemed to ring to the tread of his pony on the brittle, dry earth.

  “You kind of took a shine to Sally after that kiss, didn’t you, Montana?” The boy’s voice jerked the cowboy from his retrospection. He looked down at the youngster who was smiling up at him. In spite of himself he flushed, for even at the moment thought of the girl was uppermost in his mind.

  “What makes you think that, Button?” Montana asked.

  “Oh, just the way you still get tongue-tied when she speaks. And the way you kept looking at her at the depot after she kissed you. She sure is pretty, isn’t she, Montana?”

  “She sure is. But I never noticed that I—”

  “Too bad we ain’t got a sister, or something, like her, us Two Montanas, ain’t it?” The youngster sighed. “Gosh, she was great to me in Omaha. She’d be a regular pal. Look how she told me to brush my teeth regular; and you bet I’m doing it, too.”

  “She’s mighty thoughtful,” Montana said feelingly.

  “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

  The demand for a moment upset Montana’s calm.

  “What do you mean, do something about it?”

  “Why, marry her—or—something. She sure likes you. You could see it in her eyes. Even after she kissed you and got all fussed about it. She was just sort of peeking at you. I was watching her. And every time I caught her looking at you she got redder. Once in Omaha she—she winked at me.”

  “Winked at you,” Montana blurted out. “Why, you doggoned little flirt! I’ve got half a mind to trounce you for—”

  “For seeing a pretty gal likes you when you can’t even see it yourself?” Clem countered, the heavy seriousness of his voice almost laughable. “And that kiss—Montana, she liked that kiss.”

  That ended the conversation. Again they fell silent as their ponies moved across the blistered flats. But childish as were the boy’s words something of a thrill ran through the cowboy.

  Past midday Big Montana drew rein on the rim of a hogback to twist a cigarette. Directly below, a crowd of people packed the grassy hillsides surrounding a natural amphitheater. As they watched, a calf sped from a chute to go dashing away, a rider thundering beside it, swinging a loop. The rope whipped out. The calf somersaulted in a blatting heap. Instantly the rider was from his saddle to hog-tie it, throw up his hands in signal that the brute was fast, then run to stop his horse which, with bridle reins trailing, was dragging the little animal across the bowl.

  “This here will be the Diamond A rodeo, buddy,” Montana told the quiet boy. “If it hadn’t been for wanting to get this letter delivered pronto I’d have entered. Then again we’ll like as not locate Cousins right here. Now we’re here I’ve got half a notion to—”

  “Can you ride, too?” Little Montana asked, watching his companion with eyes still wide with admiration.

  “No big thing—but we might stir up some fun. Might be such a thing we could find Cousins and not have to go on to the Diamond A.”

  Roweling their ponies forward, to the delight of the boy, they were soon crowding the reluctant brutes through the milling crowds. Presently they sighted the judges’ stand and made for it.

  “What are the chances of entering the pitching contests?” Montana inquired, riding up to the group and swinging down.

  One of the number whirled at sound of his voice. Montana jerked straight, rigid. His hand flashed down to rest near the butt of his forty-five. For the first time since he had ridden away from the roundup camp on Tongue River he was face to face with Smokey Tremaine! But now the Diamond A foreman was careful to keep his own hands away from his guns. And again as he sighted the boy, into his eyes flared the unfathomable light of recognition that had puzzled Montana the day of his arrival in Elbar.

  “What’s that kid’s name?” Smokey demanded. “Where did he bob up from again? I thought—”

  “Seeing as how you are asking decently now instead of trying to bull your way through and throw a scare into somebody, like you did the first time you saw us, I don’t see any reason for not telling you,” Montana said. “This is my pard, Little Montana. We’re the Two Montanas, Tremaine.”

  A look that Montana could have sworn was relief flashed across the big puncher’s face.

  “So you’re aiming to enter the pitching contests?” He changed the subject abruptly. “Claim to be an exhibition rider, huh?”

  “I don’t recollect expressing any such claim,” Montana retorted. “But I have bucked down about as many snake-eyes as the next fellow.”

  “You don’t need to get hostile,” Smokey flared up. “You weren’t invited, you know.”

  “I supposed jaspers with the entrance fee could ride at any rodeo,” Montana threw back, his gray eyes snapping along the crowd of onlookers which, after the manner of crowds, ever sensing trouble, had edged up from nowhere. “I didn’t know you didn’t want new blood. I reckon that is so there won’t be any chance of you not playing whole hog with the prize money.”

  Hot anger leaped into Tremaine’s eyes. He, too, swept the group about them. The furtive glances that met his gaze were evidence of the fear in which they held him. But behind that fear also was discernible another light—a ray of sympathy for Montana, who again dared flaunt the lion of the Tongue on his own stamping ground. Some there were in the crowd who had witnessed the other meetings of the two; others knew of them. Word travels with the speed of fire in sparsely settled rangeland.

  “You’re plumb welcome to enter the pitching contests as far as I’m concerned.” Smokey was sneering. “But you’ll find bucking down these twelve-hundred-pound Tongue River horses isn’t the same as topping off the Injun ponies they call horses in Montana. It takes real men to ride these hellions. A real bronc stamper who can stay till the cows come home and tromp the devils to a standstill.” While he was speaking, his gaze was riveted upon Montana. But now suspicion had replaced the light of uncertain recognition in those glittering eyes.

  “So Whitey told me after he bucked down your rough string,” Montana shrugged.

  “I’m the champion buster of this country,” Tremaine boasted.

  “Shucks,” Montana said, “that being the case I don’t see any reason for me to be leery of Tongue River horses.”

  Smokey bristled.

  “Enter him,” he yelled to an arena judge riding by. “I’ll learn him what real riding is.” He set himself, gloved thumbs in his cartridge belt, the butt of a cigarette dangling from his lips. His hostile attitude seemed to invite trouble. But apparently Montana had no intention of becoming embroiled in a new fracas, for, with a smile he motioned to the boy. Together they led their horses away to a corral. Tying them, they returned to the judges’ stand, where Montana passed over his entrance fee and a number was pinned onto his back. Smokey watched him for a moment, then, with a contemptuous snort, sauntered away.

  The hillsides that sloped up gently from the natural amphitheater were a blaze of color; a bedlam of noise rolled away to batter to whispers far back in the somber reaches of the Big Horns. Young girls uttered piping little screams of delight. Hero-worshiping boys danced around wildly. Mothers cast aside their dignity and cried themselves hoarse. Staid husbands and businessmen—who had shut up shop in the surrounding towns—tossed into the air their high-crowned wide-brimmed hats. It was a boisterous throng, keyed to the highe
st pitch. But rodeo crowds were by no means new to Montana. Nor did he have time to enjoy the picturesque setting, for a stubby, bow-legged man of drawn, weather-beaten countenance and snow-white hair hobbled up to scrutinize him sharply from faded blue eyes.

  “Are you from Crowe?” he asked presently in an undertone.

  Determined, after his meeting with Tremaine, to hold his tongue and keep his ears open until he was sure of his ground, Montana made no reply. He sized up the newcomer. For all the suspicion and mistrust in the man’s gaze there was something likeable about him, some incomprehensible thing that won Montana’s confidence.

  “The sheriff got my letter?” the old fellow asked.

  Scenting new trouble, instantly Montana was on his guard. Not until then did he recognize the name, Crowe. It was the name of the sheriff who held the warrant for his arrest, but who, strangely, had not to his knowledge—since his warning to Kent on the roundup—made any particular effort to serve it. The name, he now recalled, was signed to the reward notice for Three Finger De-Haven the herder had pointed out to him the day of his arrival in Elbar. Apparently this old man was on the lookout for someone from the office of the sheriff, Jim Crowe. Montana sought to feel him out.

  “I’m a bronc peeler,” he said shortly.

  “I see, I see,” the stranger surprised him by saying. “You don’t want to know me openly. So you’re the new rider?”

  “I reckon I’m a rider, but—”

  “I’m Al Cousins,” the old man confided abruptly.

  Montana eyed him sharply.

  “Al Cousins?” he repeated. “Then you’re sure the gent I’m looking for. I’ve got—”

  “I know, I know,” the cowman interrupted, edging closer. “And here is the letter I wrote the sheriff about.” After a careful survey, which showed no prying eyes upon them, he passed over a crumpled piece of paper. Scarcely knowing what to do, Montana took it reluctantly

  Cousins: We’ve got a tip you’re dickering to get another detective in here. We’re warning you for the last time we won’t stand any more monkey business. If another pussyfoot comes in here we’ll get you and him too.

  The Gang.

  The warning, written in a cramped hand, was almost illegible. It occurred to Montana that anyone, no matter how poor a writer, must have used the left hand to produce such a scrawl.

  “That gang has made life hell for me for years,” Cousins was saying in a voice scarcely above a hoarse whisper. “They have rustled me ragged. Nobody has ever got sight of them. But we can go into that later. I reckon it is best that you act like you don’t know me. There will be a dance at the ranch tonight after the rodeo; I’ll meet you behind the barn at the Diamond A when the dancing gets started. But keep a dally on your tongue. Nobody is in on this but you and me. I’m going—” He broke off to glance at Tremaine who was sauntering past. “Where are you from?” he asked loudly for the benefit of the swaggering foreman.

  Expecting a momentary explosion, again on the point of attempting to reveal his mission, Montana checked himself quickly and took the cue.

  “Montana,” he answered carelessly.

  “And your name?”

  “Montana.”

  Cousins started. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “I—”

  “I reckon you have—just plenty,” Montana stopped him. “But just the same I’m Montana.” He pulled the shy boy from behind him. “And this is my buddy, Little Montana. Shake hands with Mister Cousins, buddy.”

  A happy gleam shot into Cousins’s faded eyes at sight of the embarrassed youngster. “I’m right pleased to know you, Little Montana,” he said, shaking hands with the lad, then dropping an arm about his shoulder. “I’ve got a warm spot in my heart for kids. We’ll be pals. You stick around with me and we’ll see this show from start to finish. Have you ever ridden exhibition before?” he asked Montana.

  “Third at Calgary last year,” the cowboy answered.

  “Hell’s bells! Then you must be a real rider.”

  “No big thing,” Montana corrected modestly. “I just don’t draw no color line. But what I’m trying to tell you is that I came—”

  “We’ll discuss that later,” Cousins cut him short again. “You and this little kid have made a hit with me. For ten years I’ve been trying to win a Diamond A rodeo—good-natured sport among ourselves, you know,” he offered quickly. Too quickly, Montana thought. “But Smokey Tremaine, my foreman, is wolf poison on a bronc. Do you think you could buck him down?”

  Montana shifted to watch Tremaine, who was idling about now within earshot.

  “I’m not much of a hand to brag,” Montana admitted frankly. “But I’ve met Tremaine, and it sure would give me a heap of pleasure to try and buck him down.”

  Tremaine started. Once it seemed as though the gloved hands, always hovering near the butts of his forty-fives, were going down. But again something checked their course. With a contemptuous shrug he wheeled and strode away.

  “Ride for me,” Cousins urged. “We can talk about the other tonight.”

  “It’s jake with me,” Montana said. “Money talks no matter how I get it. On the hurricane deck of a bronc or any other way.”

  “Fine!” Cousins exclaimed. “I’ll fix everything for you. My side has enough points in the other contests so that if we can win in the bronc-busting I’ll win this show hands down. And—” he sidled closer, “if we should there won’t be anything too good for you. I’ll take care of your pard. Come on, sonny.” He hooked his arm through that of the boy and hobbled away to confer with the judges.

  Montana stood staring after them. He had taken an instant liking to the old fellow. There was something appealing about him; something that impelled friendship, sympathy.

  Then through his mind started a flood of questions. The frame-up against the Buzzard. The killing of Masterson. Did Cousins know of this? Had he been a party to Kent’s crookedness? It seemed impossible, as he watched the limping old fellow with the friendly eyes, that the rancher even knew of the attempted intimidation, the blackballing of the Buzzards on Thunder. But how could he keep from knowing? And, with Kent for a partner, how could he keep from being a party to the thing?

  His mind flew on to the letter. In view of what already had occurred, and the possibility of a new explosion at any moment, he already half regretted ever coming to the Basin to deliver the letter, which as yet he had had no opportunity to mention. That Cousins had mistaken him for some detective from the sheriff’s office struck a semi-comical chord with him. He, Montana, the avowed enemy of the Diamond A playing the role of a detective! When they met that night he would have a chance to explain, set Cousins right, and find out if the kind-faced old rancher had had a part in—His retrospection was cut short by the lusty bawl of the announcer.

  “Ladies and gents! The next and last event is the pitching contest for a five-hundred-dollar purse and the championship of Tongue River. We have five entries. From these we will select three winners to ride off in the finals a month from today to see who gets a whirl at the world championship next summer at Cheyenne. Montana, who has gained quite a reputation in Thunder Basin in the past few months, riding for Al Cousins, is slated to make his bow and open the fireworks out of Chute Number One on Foghorn!”

  Mention of his name, Montana was aware, sent a whistle of expectancy through the huge crowd. But he was into the thing now; there was no turning back. He started for the corrals, suddenly conscious of scores of eyes fastened upon him and which left him far more fearful than the outlaws bawling and battling the hostlers in the chutes.

  As he strode for the corrals, his gaze swept the brimming sea of faces; the loneliness of the thing chilled him—the unfriendliness. Not a single face that he recognized outside of Tremaine, who stood just off the stand leering at him. For a moment he wished for Whitey, but Whitey was back at the Dunning place caring for the cattle—Whitey
the steadfast, Whitey his one friend in all Thunder Basin. If Whitey knew that he had actually been foolhardy enough to stop at the rodeo for the only reason, he now admitted to himself, to pit himself against Tremaine, Whitey would have called him no end of a fool. But—

  “Stash your gun with the judges during the ride,” Smokey bawled.

  Nerves brought Montana to a dead halt. He jerked about.

  “I’ll stash mine when yours come off,” he rasped out in a voice that struck him with its high-pitched unnaturalness.

  “Have it your own way,” Smokey retorted, unbuckling his studded belt with its two holstered forty-fives and passing it over to a judge. “We’re about even now.”

  In three swift strides Montana was before him. With a quick movement he slipped his gun from its holster, passed it over. Then he straightened up. But the blazing retort that flashed to his lips was never uttered. For suddenly his eyes had found someone he recognized. Beside Tremaine stood Sally Hope. A trim little figure in a modish, tailored suit, her face glowing with color and excitement. And she was smiling at him, smiling with a dazzling brilliance that set his head to whirling. He caught but a glimpse of her before his eyes fell. With a muttered word and a bow he spun about and passed on.

  Tremaine said something. From the corner of his eyes Montana saw the girl flush angrily and move away from the puncher’s side. But he had no chance to follow the urge that surged up within him. The announcer was paging the field for him. He broke into an awkward trot for the chutes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NEAR TRAGEDY

  Montana! The name buzzed on every lip. The man who had dared go for his gun in Elbar against Smokey Tremaine. The man who had dared defy King Kent and Tremaine and show up in the Diamond A roundup camp posing as Whitey Hope. The man whom some in Thunder Basin still believed dead, a victim of the rapids of the Tongue during the Buzzard stampede.