The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  Montana!

  The name brought to their feet every man, woman, and child, crowding for a glimpse at this cowboy whose daring exploits had made history in Thunder Basin. The packed mass of humanity on the hillsides swayed and screamed in the excitement of the moment, sight of the puncher who had risen to something of a hero in the eyes of the range folk.

  Well down toward the rim of the bowl, Little Montana leaped up and down with excitement, while Al Cousins watched him with a strangely happy light in his faded eyes. King Kent fell to pacing about, his nervously working hands belying the smug assurance in the smile that twisted his weather-cracked lips. The instant Kent had heard of Montana’s arrival he had started out in search of the sheriff. But he had made no great effort to locate him, in fact, had been somewhat relieved to discover that the officer was in Elbar, unable to attend the rodeo.

  But it was the boy who was getting the thrill out of the spectacle. Although his few years had been spent on a ranch, never before had he seen a rodeo with its blare and color. The snorting, striking horses being dragged along, shaking their heads savagely, forehoofs plowing furrows in the earth, or trying to climb the narrow chutes to battle the men strung out on the poles above, fired him with excitement. The moaning of the longhorned steers, the terrified blats of the calves, the constant whirl of action, threw his mind into a turmoil.

  He waited eagerly, fearfully, for Montana to come out. But the hoarse bawls, the crash of angry hoofs on timber and the thick clouds of dust swirling up from the chutes clearly explained the delay. For all the overwhelming odds against him, Foghorn was putting up the fight for his life against the saddle that was being cinched beneath his belly with a grappling hook, against the bucking-strap that was being drawn tight about his flanks.

  Of a sudden a burst of applause arose, swelled in a crescendo tumult. Little Montana seized hold of Cousins’s arm and raised himself on tiptoes just as the heavy gate of the chute swung wide.

  For a breathless second a horse—a huge, broad-rumped black—crouched in the chute quivering with terror. Then it wheeled and bolted forth, lunging away into space to land like a stone-crusher in front, stiff-legged, double-barreled behind.

  In a flash it was gone into the air again, its nose threaded between its fetlocks, its great body bowed like a horseshoe—on the curve of which sat the grim-faced Montana—its rump twisting, its tail swishing an angry accompaniment to its bawls of rage.

  Little Montana watched with awful fascination. A pitching horse was no novelty to him. Since he could remember he had seen the strings broken out for the roundups, had heard the taunts, the occasional scream of a cowboy badly hurt at the dangerous work. But then it had been but ranch routine, a part of the day’s work; and the men who had ridden were hard-faced, cursing punchers who spared neither man nor beast—men with hearts as wicked as the outlaws they rode.

  But now it was different—the noise, the color, the excitement. And aboard that bawling outlaw was the one human who had taken the trouble to show him kindness—the one thing in all his life upon which he could center his childish love.

  The “thumpity, thumpity” of the brute’s clipping hoofs as they hammered the ground were no louder than the cracks of Montana’s body as he lurched about in the saddle, scratching the outlaw from shoulder to rump, his spurs singing along its ribs almost to meet behind the cantle, his dime-thin rowels matted with hair and dripping blood.

  The crowd went wild. Men leaped about, slapping one another on the backs. Women screamed hysterically. Of all the thundering hundreds the man aboard the lunging, bawling horse seemed the least excited.

  Then the brute, blood flying from its flaring nostrils and mouth, was swapping ends, sunfishing until it seemed to lie on its side in midair, landing on legs stiff as crowbars, teetering for an instant and catapulting away to repeat the grueling, dizzy performance, bawls as raucous and penetrating as the bellow of a foghorn rumbling from its throat.

  With tears of excitement trickling down his cheeks, Little Montana watched the grim and deadly battle between man and horse. Of a sudden a great groan set his nerves to strumming. The crowd was surging forward. Men were shouting hoarsely. Women’s screams took on a different note. Terror rose up about him. He clung frantically to Cousins’s arm to be dragged along.

  “What’s the matter?” he managed to choke out, although within him he knew the cause of the cold terror that clutched at his throat, the sudden sluicing roar of his own blood in his ears.

  “That jasper is hurt,” someone was bawling. Little Montana caught his words out of the awful sickness of fear. “That horse fell right in the middle of him—He’s pinned down. God, why don’t somebody—” Little Montana’s faculties seemed to halt. His senses were reeling. Stark terror possessed him. All the strangeness, excitement he had experienced centered in one breathless moment. He was choking, clawing frantically at his throat, which suddenly seemed closed to breath.

  Then the jostling crowd before him parted. Through great clouds of dust he caught a glimpse of gray on the ground. Above it a patch of black whipped about savagely.

  “Pick him up! Pick him up!” The horrified crowd all seemed to find their voices at once.

  “Hazers! Hazers!” The hoarse shout rose deafeningly.

  Little Montana strained to see. The patch of gray had taken form. It was the shirt, the dusty garb of Montana beneath the black outlaw upon which men had pounced in an attempt to ear down.

  “Give the horse a break!” A voice suddenly rose above the uproar to crash on Little Montana’s drumming ears. “What the hell is this, a frame-up? Let him make his ride or disqualify him!”

  Game a momentary silence. Then hisses and catcalls met the shout. At that instant Little Montana got a glimpse of the speaker. His swarthy face was twisted furiously as he cursed the hazers away from the floundering outlaw. It was Smokey Tremaine. And—Little Montana’s blood seemed suddenly to freeze in his veins—just beside the hulking figure of Tremaine—who suddenly rose up as an ogre, a hideous creature of a nightmare to his bewildered childish senses—was Sally Hope. Sally, who in the passing weeks had grown up as a sort of an ideal within him, an object to share his love with Montana. And now she was there beside Tremaine, who was shouting, running the others away. But—

  Suddenly the girl had whirled. He caught sight of her face. It was pale as death. Her eyes were blazing. Then she had deliberately slapped Smokey Tremaine across the mouth. He was backing away—“Get back! Get back!” Another voice suddenly came above the bedlam. “Damn you, I’ll—”

  A mighty cheer drowned out the threat. But Little Montana had heard enough of that cool and careless voice to know that it could belong to no one but his idol—Montana.

  He stood on tiptoe again to see. Tremaine had backed off, stamping away toward the chutes. Sally no longer was with him. The outlaw, Foghorn, was lurching up, Montana still in the saddle. Almost before the brute was on its feet, it resumed its merciless, bone-crushing assault. Lost in admiration for the cowboy, conscious of a wave of hot hatred against Tremaine, Little Montana scarcely heard or saw the finish.

  As quickly as it had started the battle was over. The pick-up gun! Big Montana was lifted from the outlaw by a hazer. Wild with joy, unable to restrain himself, Little Montana jerked away from Cousins and started across the field toward the chutes. The announcer was bawling something, but he paid no heed. Over there was Big Montana, grown even more of a hero now in his childish eyes. He caught the name of Smokey Tremaine—and Tiger Rose. Hatred surged up anew within him; childish hatred for Smokey Tremaine.

  A new roar of shouting assailed his ears. In it was a note of warning. He stopped. His startled gaze flew about. People seemed to be running in all directions. He sighted Cousins trying to reach him. And Sally. He thought he caught her screaming his name. He tried to go to her. A mob cut in between them. Everyone was crowding back like frightened sheep. And it seemed ever
yone was suddenly crying out to him. Yet what all the commotion was about he had not the slightest idea.

  Then he was certain the shouts were directed at him. But why? The fleeing mob was trying to warn him of impending danger. He turned. His eyes grew wide with terror. Thundering down upon him was a big gray outlaw—Tiger Rose—its hoofs cleaving the ground, slicing the air viciously, its body a bundle of straining iron muscles. So close was the brute that Little Montana could see the savage glint in the eyes of its rider—Smokey Tremaine!

  The youngster’s terrified gaze swept the crowd for Cousins—or Sally. Somewhere they had been caught in the mad scramble and hustled along. Alone he stood in the path of the frenzied, bawling, blinded horse.

  Instinct warned him to throw himself out of the way. But his knees suddenly had turned to tallow. His senses were reeling. He was in the grip of a numbing impotence that left him dizzy and nauseated. He flung his arm across his eyes. His lips trembled.

  He risked another glance. The bawling brute was almost upon him. He attempted to cry out—for Big Montana. No sound issued from between his locked lips.

  Stark terror rooted him in his tracks. His frantic gaze met that of Tremaine, astride the outlaw. A death gleam now filled the cowboy’s eyes.

  Then the outlaw was directly above him. The inherent sense of self-preservation finally drove his paralyzed muscles to obey. The air was filled with flailing hoofs. A terrific blow landed on his head, beat him to the ground. Then he was conscious that he was in someone’s arms. A tumultuous shout drifted from far, far away. He clung desperately to the arms about him. Someone was crying something in his ear. But he could barely hear. His hammering blood had become a sluicing roar, reducing the angry shouts about him to faint whispers. A swaying curtain of darkness before his eyes was shutting out the madly spinning scene.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A CHALLENGE

  Little Montana’s first sensation afterward was of the chill of water on his head. He forced his heavy eyelid open to see a flaming sky above him. He was stretched on the ground. Montana was bending over him, bathing his throbbing head. Behind him was a sea of curious faces. Nearest Montana, holding his hand, was Sally. There were tears in her eyes. He tried gamely to smile at her, at Montana.

  “I’m all right,” he managed to choke out in a tiny voice.

  “I’m sure glad, buddy,” Big Montana gulped. “We thought you were—a goner. Believe me, I’ll settle with that—”

  “Tremaine tromped me down,” the boy panted. “I couldn’t get out of the way. I was too scared. Seemed like my legs wouldn’t move—”

  “I know he tromped you down.” There was a terrible, frozen note in Montana’s voice, the crackle of ice. All the pleasantness had left his eyes. They seemed to gleam like the blue barrel of a gun. “On purpose. Damn him, there’s something behind all this that you and me aren’t wise to. But we will be before we leave Thunder Basin.”

  Lying now with his throbbing eyes closed against the pain that shot through his head, Little Montana waited for his cowboy buddy to continue. When he did not, he glanced up. Big Montana had disappeared. Cousins was bending over him instead, Cousins and Sally, whose cool white hands seemed to sooth him, whose whispered words of encouragement seemed to give him strength above all else.

  “Where’s—Big—Montana?” the youngster faltered.

  “Lie still, sonny,” Cousins urged gently. “You’ll feel better in a little while. That outlaw struck you on the head. Don’t get excited now.” But the cowman’s failure to answer his question roused the boy. Jerking away, he lurched to his feet to stand swaying, sweeping the field with eyes that were glazed with pain. The big outlaw, from which the saddle had been stripped, was thundering away across the bowl. The crowd was edging back. Directly before him was Big Montana, coming back from the judges’ stand, his forty-five dangling in his hand.

  A scream left the lips of the boy and Sally. Facing Big Montana was Tremaine, who also had secured his guns.

  “You lousy lobo,” Montana was forcing softly through set teeth. “You could have turned that outlaw. You a champion bronc peeler. Why, damn your cowardly heart, I ought to drill you. You’ve asked for it plenty and you’ve got it coming.”

  “Like hell you’ll drill him!” It was King Kent coming on a run, roaring like an infuriated bull. “Let the brat stay out of the way if he don’t want to—” He planted himself beside the cowboy.

  “Brat?” Big Montana smiled—a cold, grim, lifeless smile that was little more than a tightening of his lips across his teeth. “He isn’t a brat, and, damn you, it takes more of a man than you’ll ever be to call him one. He’s my buddy. You get that, you two-bit four-flushing wallopers. My buddy. And no man alive can tromp him down nor abuse him. You keep your bill out of this,” he shot out at Kent. “I’m running this show to suit myself for a while and I’ll—”

  “Like hell you are,” Kent bawled. “You can’t come down here and start trouble thisaway. It’s what you came for. Get the sheriff,” he hurled at the crowd, secure in the knowledge that the sheriff could not be reached. “There’s a warrant out for this jasper.”

  “I warned you on the roundup that the minute they try to serve that warrant the jig is up with you,” Montana flashed out. “You and Tremaine. Now bust yourself, you white-livered steer.”

  Kent’s rage drove him beyond reason.

  “I’ll—I’ll—” He was shouting at the top of his voice, his face purple with fury. Regardless of Montana’s lowered gun he swung a blind and terrific blow at the puncher’s head. Montana side-stepped, lifted an uppercut with his left from the ground and plastered it at the base of the bellowing rancher’s ear. That blow stopped Kent in his tracks. He rocked on his heels. The color left his face which grew chalky. His knees sagged, buckled. He crumpled to the ground.

  “You don’t ever do anything but beller,” Montana was panting. “That’s all you’ve done since I first came into Thunder. I’ve seen your caliber all over cowland—You won’t do anything. Any more than this hell-bending Smokey Tremaine. You’re two of a kind. Two bob-tailed flushers. You may have the fear of the Lord in the rest of these folks around here but I don’t buffalo.” He jerked his scathing words from the moaning Kent to Smokey. “Now you, damn you, you tromped my buddy.”

  But apparently the mighty Tremaine had seen enough of Montana in action, had little stomach left for another encounter.

  “I didn’t,” he cried hoarsely, backing away. “I couldn’t hold that Tiger Rose. I tried to holler to the kid. But I couldn’t—” Then Cousins had seized Montana by the arm.

  And another voice just at his elbow came low, pleading. It thrilled him with its sweetness, left him embarrassed.

  “Cool down,” Sally Hope was pleading. “Perhaps he couldn’t turn the outlaw. Little Montana isn’t hurt badly. More frightened than anything. Don’t let us turn this wonderful day into—” The cowboy dragged a hand across his eyes. Before Little Montana knew what he was about he, too, was running forward, had clutched the arm of his friend.

  “Don’t, pard!” he begged. “Mebbeso he couldn’t help it. Don’t have any more trouble over me. Please. Come along.”

  He was tugging frantically at Montana’s arm. And the girl had laid a hand on him, was also attempting to move him along. Cousins, too, was pulling him.

  Big Montana shook them all off roughly, stood for a moment eyeing the white-faced Tremaine.

  “You snake,” he spat. “I won’t clean up on you now. But your time’s coming when I get ready. You’ve hated this kid and me ever since you laid eyes on us. You’ve mistaken us for somebody. And you’re gunning for us. Well, you’ll have just plenty of chance. I’m giving you fair warning, in front of everybody—here and now—don’t ever try to start anything else.”

  With a contemptuous shrug, he rammed his forty-five into its holster and deliberately turned his back on Tremaine. F
or a moment it seemed that the Diamond A foreman was going for his guns. But apparently he thought better of it for he spun about on his heel and stamped away toward the chutes, his pock-marked face dark and ugly with anger.

  The tragedy averted, again the dizziness assailed Little Montana. Too late he realized that only the excitement of the moment had brought him to his feet. He took a step, stumbled, went down to his knees, fighting gamely against the returning mantle of darkness. But to no avail. He could feel himself going down, was only vaguely aware of being snatched up and lifted in strong arms. Once to him came the voice of the girl, the gruff almost surly answer of Montana. Then his bewildered senses left him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TEMPTING AN ENEMY?

  Little Montana groped back to consciousness. His eyelids fluttered open. He was on a bed beside an open window. When his aching eyes became accustomed to the light he stared outside. For miles a veritable wilderness of grass and trees met his gaze. He was conscious of a riot of color, yet as he studied them he found but few patches of even buff or white. All the rest was green; more varieties and tones of green than he knew existed, the dark green of bushes ran to the lighter green of cottonwood; here and there was a cluster of aspens, their slender, graceful trunks a chalky white against a background of green leaves. And on beyond, the Big Horns rose from the valley floor, their sides carpeted with the green of pine so dark as to be almost black.

  Weary of staring at the mountains, he turned over to look from the open door. It was evening. Outside he could see the buildings of a ranch set in the midst of gigantic cottonwoods. Above was a big house. The Diamond A, he supposed. And below was a great hay barn. Beyond were the stock barns and the corrals of peeled cottonwood.

  The air was balmy and sweet with the scent of wild flowers that grew about in profusion; the silence as vast as that found in chambers of the dead—unbroken save for the roar of water. That roar had come to him in his stupor, had been maddening. But now as he listened it soothed him.