The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  “Say it again! Say it again!” he was shouting to the astonished announcer. “Loud, man! Bellow it!”

  “Montana out of Chute Number One on Foghorn!” the surprised announcer fairly bawled.

  Little Montana gasped.

  “Montana,” he murmured. “He—he—Pard!” He covered his face with his hands, shrank back in terror.

  Sally gathered him in her arms.

  “There, now,” she pleaded. “It’s Sally, who loves you—your Sally.”

  He glanced at her and smiled wanly. Then he buried his face against her breast. “Sally,” he choked. “I—remember—now.”

  “Montana. He’s coming out of Chute Number One. On Foghorn!” It was the doctor shouting to the dumbfounded crowd, which heard him in amazement. “We don’t know where he came from nor how; but your pard, Montana, is back!”

  Little Montana pulled away from the girl, clutched at his head. He passed a hand weakly across his eyes.

  “Montana,” he whispered. “Out of Chute Number One—on Foghorn. Sally—It’s my buddy!” He lurched up to reel into the outstretched arms of Cousins who, too, was jibbering crazily.

  Then, directly below, the chute gate swung open. A thunderous shout rolled across the bowl. Montana came out on Foghorn to hit the ground with a thud that rocked the stands.

  Little Montana jerked himself away from Cousins, stared at the outlaw: A new light blazed in his eyes.

  “Montana! Montana!” he shrieked. “Give him hell, pard!”

  The cowboy dared a glance above, risked his balance to wave.

  “Be back in a minute, Button!” he shouted hoarsely. Then he was gone on top of a madly spinning mass of bawling horseflesh.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ONE MYSTERY SOLVED

  The ride Montana made that day is history on Tongue River. Foghorn uncorked his mightiest tricks. For all of them the cowboy raked him from shoulder to rump, rode him down to a trembling halt then roweled him back to the judges’ stand, acclaimed champion by thunderous shouts. Throwing himself from the saddle, he flew into the stands.

  “Montana—Pard—” the boy faltered.

  “Button!” The name was a joyful cry on the cowboy’s lips. He caught the youngster as he swayed forward. “I was scared to ask—” He choked, swiped savagely at his eyes. “I was scared you were—I’m sure glad we’re together again. Just us Two Montanas.”

  The doctor seized Kent’s arm, tried to pull him from the stand.

  “Don’t butt in,” he warned. “That youngster will be all right now. It was just what he needed—another shock.”

  But Kent shook him off violently, whirled on Montana.

  “Where did you come from?” he demanded.

  Montana started to turn. Then he was conscious of a movement beneath his arm. In seizing the boy he had thrown his arm around Sally, who was trying gently to free herself. A hot flush swept his face.

  “Howdy, Miss Sally,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t mind.” She smiled, her eyes filling with tears. “We’re so happy to think—” But he had swung on Kent.

  “From hell to haunt you,” he was lashing out, still clinging to the youngster, “after your pal, Three-Finger DeHaven kicked me into Piney to drown. But I fooled him. And you, too! I managed to grab a drift log—washed ashore a few bends down. Laid there most of the day, all in, with my arm where I’d been shot burning bad. When I was able I lit out—so locoed I hardly knew what direction I was traveling. Made the Dunning place. Whitey Hope, the best pal—Where’s Whitey?” he broke off to demand.

  “Right here,” came back the voice of the cowboy. “Just keeping my gun on Mister Kent in case he decided to get wolfy.”

  Kent’s face blanched. A grim smile moved Montana’s lips.

  “Always on the job, that’s Whitey,” Montana said. “A brother to be proud of, Miss Sally. He nursed me through a fever in my arm. Got me on my feet for these finals, staked me to a gun—to use on Tremaine—then saved me the trouble. It was Whitey who figured out about Smokey.” He stopped to glare at the white-faced Kent, who for once was speechless.

  Little Montana looked up to smile weakly.

  “I’m sure glad you came through, pard,” he said.

  “So am I,” the cowboy answered softly. “The Two Montanas are back together again. And now we’ll wind up things in this country and drift.”

  “Not by a danged sight you won’t drift,” Cousins said. “You’re staying right here. Nobody will ever get this boy away from me again.”

  “Nor from me,” Sally put in quickly, flushing.

  “Reckon I’ll have to take him,” Montana told them. “I couldn’t get along without him and—”

  “And neither can I,” Cousins cried. “Didn’t you read that letter? Don’t you know?”

  “I’d plumb forgotten the letter,” Montana confessed. “No, I didn’t read it.”

  “Nat Ellis was my foreman, years ago,” Cousins explained hastily. “He disappeared; my boy also disappeared. We found his hat in Piney, planted just so I’d think he had drowned. And after all these years you brought me this letter.” He pulled Little Montana to him. “And brought me back my boy.”

  “Your boy?” Montana gasped. “Was that what Uncle Nat—”

  “Nat Ellis kidnapped him—Nat Ellis and Smokey Tremaine. Kidnapped him so—” He only gazed after Kent who was slinking away, “—so Kent and Smokey Tremaine could get hold of my ranch. They gave Nat five hundred dollars. He took my boy south, tagged him Clem White, and abandoned him at a ranch way down on Powder River. Then Nat skinned out. Nobody around here has heard from him since. But he kept tabs on the boy somehow; and came clean with everything in this letter.”

  “So that’s how Smokey got his drag with Kent!” Montana blurted out. “And that is what Uncle Nat tried so hard to tell me before he died? Why he had me meet buddy and bring him on here? Keep your eye on Kent, Whitey,” he shouted.

  “He won’t get very far,” Cousins said wearily. “I haven’t been the sucker I’ve seemed for years. The Diamond A boys are watching Kent, have been for days. They’ll drop him if he—” The crack of a forty-five checked him. They crowded over to see. Again Whitey was calmly blowing the smoke from the hot barrel of his Colt.

  “Another casualty,” he announced grimly. “Just winged like the other. I didn’t want him to get too far. Even crippled ducks get away in the grass once they hit the shore. Another wagon!” he bellowed to the crowd, which still stood about, staring. “Here you, Hartzell,” he ordered the T6 owner who was hovering about suspiciously. “Here’s a job you’ll like. Take this walloper to Elbar. Get him a doctor—if you can’t get out of it,” he finished dryly.

  “Whitey has been itching to stage this roundup.” Montana grinned. “He wanted that five-thousand reward for Three-Finger DeHaven. I reckon the kid got it—and Kent, your partner.”

  “Partner!” Cousins spat. “He just tried to be. Went so far as to tell folks he was. But he isn’t; never has been.”

  “I begin to see things,” Montana said, brows knitted pensively. “But there is still a heap of explaining to do. I know now why Smokey and Kent had it in for me from the start—and for buddy. They suspected who we were, even though we didn’t know ourselves. They were leery of Button here. I must have reminded them of Uncle Nat—Smokey seemed to recognize me. Then when Whitey and I teamed up—You didn’t notice any resemblance, did you?”

  “I didn’t have a guilty conscience,” Cousins reminded.

  “But that’s why Smokey tried to tromp buddy down and kidnapped him,” Montana exclaimed.

  “And busted me over the head,” Little Montana cried in a voice trembling with excitement. “I remember now. It came to me all of a sudden. After he kicked you into the river I scrapped him. He knocked me out.”

  “And claimed a
drift log hit you,” Cousins snarled. “But Montana’s horse showed him up. He got what was coming to him, thanks to Montana.”

  “He hasn’t got half of what is coming to him,” Montana growled. “Nor Kent, either. But the thanks go to Whitey; and to Uncle Nat, who got us Two Montanas together, headed us down here with that letter for you. And we come danged near backing out, thinking Uncle Nat was locoed, didn’t we, Button?”

  “We sure did.” The boy grinned happily. “That day outside of Elbar.”

  “But we bulled her through,” Montana said. “And l reckon you did find out something that interested you, after all. Found your real pa—and found out you were in line for a big ranch. But there’s other things to do and here we stand chewing the rag.”

  “Other things?” Cousins asked quickly. “Haven’t we done enough?”

  “There’s still a murder,” Montana told him. “The lowest murder ever committed in Thunder Basin. I’m going to pin it on the man who did it. We’re heading for town, Whitey and I. We’ve got such a good start now we’re going to clean up Elbar.”

  “Would a little trip to town hurt us, Doc?” Cousins asked, an excited gleam in his eyes.

  “It will do you good, Al.” The doctor smiled. “And the boy too, now that—Well, I guess I’d better be leaving. I’ll see you all in Elbar.”

  He quit the stand. Sally, who had grown singularly quiet and moody, and the puttering Cousins, prepared the boy for the ride. Montana lifted him into the buck-board, helped the girl up over the wheel, then, with Whitey, who was grinning broadly, waited until Cousins had secured the reins and started. Then Montana and Whitey lifted their horses along the dusty trail that wound up the river toward Elbar.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  GUNMAN’S BULLETS

  Once again Elbar was in a tempest of excitement. A soft prairie moon, sliding up in the east, cast a haze of silver over the broken plank walks, routed the creeping shadows about the hulking buildings, made yellow and wan the penciled rays of coal-oil lamps along the street.

  Again broad-shouldered, lean-hipped punchers strode that street, spur rowels jangling. Punchers squatted on their haunches or leaned idly against their ponies, which stood three-legged, heads drooping wearily. And again the air was impregnated with a tenseness that threatened momentarily to explode and send the crowd clawing for the guns holstered at every hip.

  Montana had come loping into town at twilight, along with Whitey Hope. Their first stop had been at the sheriff’s office. Word that the sheriff and the coroner were at the Midway had sent them to the saloon. There they found the two, the sheriff boasting of his capture of Three-Finger DeHaven.

  “We’re reopening the inquest into the killing of Pop Masterson,” Montana cut in coldly to announce. He swept the startled crowd with fearless eyes. “I want every man there who saw the fracas. Figure you’ve been subpoenaed.”

  “You can’t do that,” the coroner sputtered indignantly.

  “I am doing it!”

  “To make it legal you’ve got to have subpoenas served,” Jerry, the bartender, leaned close to whisper in Montana’s ear.

  “I’m serving them,” Montana snapped. “This is your subpoena.” He tapped the butt of his forty-five. “The only kind some of you understand. And it says for every mother’s son of you to be at the coroner’s office in an hour. You have Tremaine and Kent there,” he ordered the sheriff.

  “They’re wounded,” the officer flared hotly. “Besides, you’re not giving—”

  “They’ll be at the inquest if we have to drag them in feet first.” The grim-faced Montana planted himself in front of the officer, who backed away. “And you too. Understand? Hartzell,” catching a glimpse of the T6 owner edging away through the crowd, “you stick with me. I might need help.”

  Hartzell stopped short to stare for an instant. Then vanity flamed into his little eyes. He moved over importantly beside Montana.

  “Find out if Cousins has gotten in yet,” Montana told Whitey. “Take this sheriff and coroner along with you. See that they have Smokey and Kent at the inquest. You wrangle them. I’ll wrangle here until you holler.” Muttering threats under their breath, the sheriff and the coroner quit the saloon, Whitey at their heels.

  “Settle down, jaspers,” Montana invited, dropping into a chair. “We’ll just auger until things are ready. Meantime, if there is anybody who feels hostile, now’s his chance to bark and get it out of his system.” But no man spoke.

  It was almost an hour later when Whitey returned to find Montana, Jerry, Hartzell, and the punchers laughing hilariously as they swapped yarns of the range. The hostile tension had been broken.

  A far different crew, they came trooping into the office of the coroner—a thoroughly cowed crew, yet not unfriendly. The smoking, rough jests, laughter of the other inquest were missing.

  Beside the plainly frightened coroner, Montana placed the puzzled Cousins, whose snow-white hair gleamed in the flickering light. Next came the grumbling sheriff, who chewed his lips nervously. Montana, too, took a seat facing the crowd, the boy close at hand. Whitey Hope leaned wearily against the wall, his blue eyes whipping along the line to scan every face.

  Montana got to his feet.

  “About a year ago,” he said slowly, “I ducked out of an inquest in this room, because I knew I was framed. But I told you then that someday I’d call a showdown. I’m calling it, jaspers. And a little different from that other inquest—in case anybody wants to question it—I’m running this show. You all know why we’re here. You’re not legally subpoenaed, but you’d better be danged eager to get what you know off your chests. Whether he likes it or not, our coroner has reopened the inquest into the death of Pop Masterson. Now I’m asking, who killed him?”

  His gaze sought, locked with that of Smokey Tremaine who, despite two splinted and bandaged arms, the sheriff had brought in to seat in the front row facing Montana. But the big puncher never batted an eye. Nor did Kent, who also carried an arm in a sling and who sat beside Smokey, nervously chewing a cigar. There was smug assurance on the peaked face of Hartzell, to whom Montana had given the job of watching the pair, and who made no pretense of concealing his elation at holding the whip hand.

  “You’ve got the guns off Tremaine and Kent, sheriff?” Montana asked. “Break them!” The sulking sheriff produced the three guns he had taken from the prisoners—two from Tremaine, one from Kent. With fingers that trembled he broke the cylinders. Montana himself dumped the shells from the chambers, examined them closely. He straightened up, a puzzled light in his eyes.

  “Smokey!” he shot out. “What did you kill Pop Masterson for?”

  “I didn’t kill Masterson,” Tremaine threw back sullenly.

  “There were three shots fired,” Montana propounded. “I shot twice. But the second shot was after the killing. You had your two guns out.”

  “My right gun is a bluff,” Smokey admitted hatefully. “I’m a left-handed gun-man. Not a cartridge in the chamber of my right gun was fired. I shot once at you and missed. The sheriff can—”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff chimed in. “I examined his gun.”

  “Your word isn’t any better with me now than it was before,” Montana silenced him. “You played crooked that night by letting Tremaine and Kent get away. And you’ll play crooked again if you get a chance. As for you, Tremaine, you’re lying—lying to save your lousy hide, figuring a rustling charge is less than murder.”

  “You’ve won, jasper,” Smokey cried. “I’m Three-Finger DeHaven. I did the things you claim against the Buzzard. But damn me, I didn’t kill Masterson.” It was plain that Tremaine’s nerve had broken. There was no denying now the sincerity in his words. “I’ll take my jolt in the pen. But I didn’t kill—” His hoarse voice cracked.

  “Just the caliber I figured, Smokey,” Montana snorted contemptuously. “A sneaking coyote when you’
re not filled with the old brave-maker and cornered. You, the jasper who swore to keep the Buzzards out of Thunder Basin! You and Kent—” He stopped abruptly, his roving eyes suddenly centered on Hartzell, who was sucking in every word, an ugly smile of triumph on his thin lips. “Hartzell!” he snapped. “Come up here and break that gun of yours.”

  The owner of the T6 recoiled.

  “Why, I’m your friend, Montana. I offered you friendship that night in the saloon. I’d have quit these wallopers cold. But I figured you were drowned in the river. I didn’t have any part in that shooting.”

  “Get up there and break your gun!” It was Whitey’s voice that lashed the color from Hartzell’s hawk-like face. “You’re the skunk I’ve picked from the jump. And don’t make a crooked move or you’re a gone bird.”

  “You fellows will pay for this high-handed—” the sheriff began furiously.

  “Not as dear as you’re going to if you bat an eye,” Whitey hurled back.

  Hartzell cast one terrified look at the cowboy, who though he still leaned carelessly against the wall now had his forty-five in his hand. But the T6 owner made no move to advance.

  “I know you offered friendship in the saloon that night,” Montana spoke half musingly. “But you offered it too quick, jasper. Whitey has given me a little of your history—about you being the crack shot of the Basin. You didn’t offer your friendship, Hartzell, until you figured Smokey was down and I was the best man. Break that gun!”

  Hartzell attempted to draw his forty-five. It froze on the rim of his holster. It was Whitey who whipped it out, broke the cylinder and passed the cartridges up to Montana.

  “Hartzell!” Montana cried in a strained, unnatural voice. “You’re the jasper who fired that third shot. You killed Pop Masterson!”

  “I swear I didn’t,” Hartzell screamed. “I—I—It was Tremaine. He can shoot with both his guns. He—”

  Shoving his hand into his pocket, Montana pulled forth a pellet of lead.

  “The jasper who shot Pop Masterson was using copper-jacketed forty-fives with niches in them,” he said coldly. “A trick of the old gunmen who shoot to kill. That niche did its work. The bullet didn’t glance; it drilled clean through old Pop. I happened to find it under his coat. Here it is, Hartzell!”