Garstone sat up. “That’s an idea, Zeb,” he conceded. “What’s the figure?”
“Forty thousand.”
“Dave Dover must have been mad.”
“No, the Circle Dot is worth more than that, an’ he gambled on Lawson—the old manager—remainin’; they were good friends.”
“Where’s the coin coming from,” Garstone wanted to know.
The rancher shrugged. “We’ve nearly a couple of months to raise it.”
“And so has young Dover. Does he know?”
“I believe not, an’ I suggested to Maitland, casually, that he might let the lad get over his father’s death before pressin’ him.”
“Damn it, that was clever of you, Zeb,” the Easterner complimented. “Gives us a start in the race, anyhow.”
Yorky’s new attire was as big a surprise to the outfit as it had been to him, and he had to endure a considerable amount of banter. But it was of the good-natured character—the kind they inflicted upon each other—for the boy’s health aroused only pity in their robust natures. Also, Yorky’s tongue had a razor edge, and, as Tiny once put it, “the li’l runt was shore raised on brimstone.”
When Blister and Noisy rode in and beheld the resplendent figure leaning carelessly against the veranda rail, they gave a passable imitation of falling from their horses.
“D’you see what I see, Noisy?” Blister cried. “Dan has done sold the ranch from under us, an’ there’s the noo owner. I’m askin’ for my time; I ain’t ridin’ for no dude.”
Noisy nodded. They pulled up about ten yards away, removed their hats, and sat in silent admiration. A moment later, Tiny, Slocombe, and Lidgett arrived, and without a word, lined up beside them. Yorky, who was enjoying the sensation he was causing, spoke:
“Howdy, fellers.”
“It can talk,” Blister said in an awed tone. “An’ somehow the voice seems familiar.”
The voice continued to talk. It began by describing them as a bunch of locoed sheep-herders, and went on to become even more familiar, referring, with fluency of adjective, to the personal habits of each one in turn. All this with a grin on the sallow face.
“Why, it’s Yorky!” Slow pretended to discover. “Sufferin’ serpents, boy, where did you git them bee-yu-ti-ful clothes?”
“Bought ‘em outa his savin’s on smokin’,” Tiny suggested. “Couldn’t be did in the time,”
Blister said. “Yorky don’t earn more’n a dollar a week.”
“He does, but he don’t git more,” the boy corrected. “I b’lieve he’s robbed a store,” Lidgett laughed.
“Aw, go chase yerself,” Yorky countered. “Me rich uncle in Noo York—”
A howl of merriment cut short the explanation; extravagant tales of this mythical relative had amused them on more than one occasion. Sudden had joined the group.
“Don’t yu mind ‘em—they’re just jealous,” he said. “Yu’ll be the best-dressed Circle Dot fella at the dance.”
“What dance?” several voices asked.
“I hear the town is holdin’ one, at the schoolhouse, tickets a dollar a head-to approved applicants.”
“That last oughta shut out them Wagon-wheel felons,” was Tiny’s comment. “When’s she due to happen, this fandango?”
“Middlin’ soon, but the date ain’t fixed.”
“It’s two long weeks to pay-day, an’ we couldn’t raise a dollar in the outfit,” Blister wailed.
“Shucks! Dan’s got a slate, ain’t he?” Sudden grinned. That evening he told his news to Dover and the foreman, both of whom were inclined to be sceptical.
“Rainbow must be wakin’ up,” was the rancher’s opinion. “How did you get the glad tidin’s, Jim?”
“Met Malachi on his way up here. No, he warn’t lit up, but I wouldn’t say he was enjoyin’ the ride. He’s unusual, that hombre.”
“Shore is, if he’d come ten mile to bring a bit o’ local gossip,” Dan said ironically.
“There was somethin’ else; he said yu might find it worthwhile to make the acquaintance o’ the new bank manager—soon.”
—“What the devil—”
“That’s all he would say, but in yore place I’d take the advice. Malachi ain’t a fool, ‘cept to hisself.”
Dan gave in. “I’ll ride over in the mornin’.”
“He also mentioned that the dance is bein’ organized by Zeb Trenton, to introduce his niece,” Sudden went on.
The young man’s face flushed furiously. “Then the Circle Dot ain’t attendin’,” he grated.
“That’ll disappoint the boys an’ put us in wrong with everybody,” the foreman dissented.
“He’s right, Dan,” Sudden supported. “Yu can’t afford to stay away.”
“Damnation, whose side are you on?” Dover asked irritably.
“Yores, an’ I made it plain to Trenton yestiddy when he offered me double pay to ride for him,” was the pointed reply.
“He—did—that? An’ you sent him packin’? I’m sorry, Jim; I’m a sore-headed bear, these days.”
“Don’t need talkin’ about. He put it that he owed me somethin’.”
“Imagine a Trenton sufferin’ from gratitude! All he wanted was to take a good man from me.”
“The dance is also to serve as a welcome for another newcomer—the bank fella,” the puncher added.
“That settles it—we just gotta be there,” Burke said. “Yorky must ‘a’ had early news o’ the party—he’s all dressed up a’ready, an’ got the boys guessin’.”
“I saw him as I rode in, struttin’ around like a young turkey gobbler,” Dan smiled. “Yore doin’, I s’pose, Jim?”
“Part o’ the cure,” Sudden replied.
In the private office of the bank Dover sat facing the manager, a smallish, undistinguished person, nearing fifty, with thinning hair, and pale, spectacled eyes.
“I wasn’t meaning to trouble you yet, Mister Dover, in view of your bereavement,” he said. “But I’m glad you came in; I wanted to see you.”
“About anythin’ in particular?”
“Er, yes. Are you acquainted with the state of your father’s finances?”
“No. Dad was allus kind o’ secretive, an’ I ain’t had time to look over his papers.”
“Quite so. Well, Mister Dover, when I examined the books of this bank I was amazed and even alarmed by the amount owing to it by the local cattlemen.” .
“You tellin’ me the Circle Dot is one of ‘em?”
“Not only one, but the most deeply involved.”
At this moment the door opened and a young, fair-haired girl stepped in. “Oh, Dad,” she began, and stopped. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
“My only child, Kate, Mister Dover,” the banker explained. The young man stood up, shook hands, murmured, “Pleased to meetcha,” and the girl withdrew, but not without a challenging glance of approval at the rancher.
“What’s the position?” Dan asked.
“We hold a mortgage on your ranch for forty thousand dollars,” came the reply.
Dan jerked upright, his eyes large. “The hell you say?” he gasped. “Forty thousand? That’s a jag o’ money.”
“Much more than we can afford to lose. I understand the cattle business has been bad for some years.”
“You won’t lose a cent,” Dover asserted. “There’s better times right ahead.”
“Mister Trenton, whose experience you must allow, doesn’t share your views about that.”
Dan’s face darkened. “How came the Wagon-wheel into this?” He put a question.
“It is our rule never to disclose information about a client,” Maitland said pompously.
“Then Trenton don’t know about the Circle Dot?”
A second’s hesitation, and then, “Not from us, Mister Dover,” came the denial.
Watching the weak, irresolute features, Dan knew the words were untrue. Long years of sitting on a stool, adding up figures, had given the man a position o
f some responsibility, but not the knowledge to use it. He would bully those beneath him, and be servile to his superiors, and of the latter he would regard Trenton as one.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“The mortgage expires in a little less than two months, and as I am convinced our Head Office will not consider a renewal, it must be paid off.”
“An’ failin’ that?”
The banker lifted his shoulders. “We have the power to sell.”
To all the young man’s arguments that a forced sale would not produce even the amount of the debt, let alone the value of the ranch, and that, by waiting, the banker would get the whole sum due, he shook a stubborn head. He had the interests of his employers to consider; his predecessor had been unwise; he was sorry, and so on.
Dover listened with a set jaw; he knew the mean, warped little soul was joying in the possession of authority for the first time. Mechanically he took the flabby hand extended when he rose.
“I shall hope to see you at the dance,” Maitland said. “A very kindly thought on the part of Mister Trenton. It will give me an opportunity of meeting our customers in a more congenial atmosphere than that of an office. My wife and daughter will appreciate it.”
Dan gave a non-committal answer, went out, and proceeded to the Parlour. Bowdyr was alone—yesterday’s patrons were sleeping it off, and to-day’s had not yet begun to come in.
“Where’s Malachi?” the rancher enquired.
“At the opposition joint, I expect,” Bowdyr grinned. “He’s an odd mixture: allus pays cash here, but runs an account there—sez he’d hate to die in my debt, but it would cheer his last moments to remember that he owed Sody ‘bout a million dollars. You want him?”
“I want a drink more—a big one.”
The saloonkeeper looked at him keenly. “What’s the trouble, boy?” he asked, pushing forward bottle and glass. Dan swallowed a hearty gulp of the spirit, and then told the story. Ben’s face grew graver as he listened.
“Hell!” he said, when all was told. “I knowed the Ol’ Man was up agin it, but never suspicioned it was that bad. An’ you think Trenton knows?”
“Shorely,” Dan replied. “He’d milk that money-grubber dry. I’ve gotta raise that coin somehow, Ben, or he’ll buy the Circle Dot for half its value.”
“Well, Dan, any help I can give is yourn, but pore times in the cattle trade hits me too,”
Bowdyr said.
“I know that, Ben, an’ thanks, but this is my job.”
The entry of Malachi put an end to the conversation. He appeared to be sober, and helped himself to an unusually modest dose of his customary tipple.
“I’m obliged for yore message, Doc,” the rancher said. “You’ve seen Maitland? What’s your opinion of him?”
“I think he’s taken the place of a better man.”
“Yes, it was an unlucky day for Rainbow when Lawson elected to go back East,” the doctor agreed. “This fellow has always had a boss; he’ll find one here.”
“He’s done that a’ready,” Dan said bitterly. “Though mebbe he ain’t aware of it yet.”
Malachi nodded. “Trenton gets the town to give a dance in his niece’s honour, an’ tells Maitland it’s for him.” He laughed wryly. “Clever devil; wonder how much he owes the bank?”
“I dunno, but I’d like to,” Dan said. “You goin’ to this festive gatherin’?”
“I might. I’m told the girl is pretty. Have you seen her?”
“Yeah, she has looks,” Dover admitted, and left soon after. “He’s missin’ his dad,” Bowdyr remarked.
Malachi nodded agreement. “Ought to take more liquor; drink is the sovereign cure for depression, old settler; lifts a man to Paradise—”
“An’ drops him in hell next mornin’,” the saloonkeeper finished. “You can’t tell me, Doc; I sell it.”
Chapter VIII
Dover spoke little during the evening meal, but afterwards, when he joined Sudden and Burke at the fireside—for the nights were chilly—he shared the burden which had been on his mind all day. The effect on the foreman was shattering.
“Goda’mighty, Dan, it can’t be true,” he cried. “Them bank sharks must be framin’ you.”
“I saw the deed,” the rancher replied. “It’s straight enough.
We have to pay up, or let Trenton grab the Circle Dot.”
“Is the Wagon-wheel in debt to the bank?” Sudden asked. “Shore to be, but not up to the neck, as we are.”
“Then they won’t find it easy to put up the price.”
“Not unless Garstone can get it back East.”
“That’ll take time, an’ gives us a fightin’ chance to heat ‘em to it,” the puncher responded.
“Mebbe if yu reduced the amount …”
“I offered that, but he wouldn’t listen. Trenton has painted a pretty gloomy future for cattle.”
“Awright, we gotta make it so—for him,” Sudden said grimly. “Meanwhile, we’d better keep this to ourselves; sometimes there ain’t safety in numbers. Yu got anythin’ in mind, Dan?”
“Yeah, but it’s such a long shot that—well, it’ll sound hopeless.”
“Long shots come off—times.”
The rancher pondered for a moment, and then, “Bill, you’ll have heard o’ Red Rufe’s Cache?”
“Shore, but I never took much stock in it,” Burke replied.
“It’s true,” Dan said, and went to an old desk in a corner of the room. They heard a click, and he returned with a creased half-sheet of paper. “Here’s what it sez: `Dear Dave,—I’ve made a lot o’ money an’ a good few enemies. In case one o’ these last gets me, I’m lettin’ you know that my pile is cached in the hills. When you reach the bowl on Ol’ Cloudy’s knees, watch out. West is north, an’ north is noon, one half after will be too soon. I’m sendin’ the rest o’ the instructions by another hand. Yore brother, Rufe.’ That was the last news we had of him, some three years ago.”
“An’ the second messenger never arrived?” Sudden asked. “I dunno. A stranger was found two-three miles out on the Cloudy trail a little while later; he’d been shot an’ robbed. The first chap got drunk in the town an’ may’ve talked some. Anyway, the story of the cache oozed out, an’ there’s been more than one try to find it, but Cloudy is big an’ hard country.”
“Yore father didn’t attempt it?”
“I ain’t shore; he was away for a week or more several times, but without the rest o’ the directions, it’s almost hopeless.”
“An’ it was this paper that—”
“Dad was killed for,” Dan said gruffly. “Yeah, someone has the other. I figure Flint was sent here to steal it.”
“That means Trenton has the other?”
“That’s my belief, but I’ve no proof,” the rancher admitted. “Yeah, I guess I could find this place the paper mentions, but without the further instructions …” He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“Well, it’s a forlorn hope, like yu said, Dan,” Sudden remarked. “We gotta keep eyes an’ ears open. One good pointto bite on is that whoever has the second message is wuss off than we are—he don’t know where to begin.”
“If on’y we could put our paws on that missin’ paper,” the foreman lamented.
“If—that’s one hell of a word, ol’-timer,” Sudden smiled. “Just the most provokin’ one in the whole darn dictionary.”
The evening of the dance arrived and found the Circle Dot bunkhouse in a state of feverish activity. Shirts had been washed, boots polished, and war-bags were being searched for a hoarded neckerchief or cherished tie, which was not always found in the possession of its rightful owner.
“Hi, who’s rustled my red silk wipe?” Lidgett wanted to know, and then, detecting Noisy in the act of slipping the missing article out of sight, pounced upon it.
“Why, you gave it me,” protested the silent one.
“It was on’y lent, you chatterin’ son of a cock-eyed coyote,” Lid retorte
d. “Think I got nothin’ to do with my earnin’s but keep you in clothes?”
“You don’t earn a cent—what Dan gives you is part o’ our pay,” Noisy grinned. “We do the work.”
Paddy, the cook, pestered by demands for hot irons to take the creases from seldom-worn coats, and the loan of his razor, which was known to possess an edge, energetically damned the dance and the fools who were going to it. He was remaining at the ranch.
“An’, thank Hiven, it’s a peaceful night I’ll be enjoyin’ for once in me loife.”
“It’s a mercy you ain’t comin’—there’d be no space for anybody else,” Slim unwisely told him.
“Shure an’ there wud for you if the room was full, ye slice o’ nothin’,” the fat man retorted. “Yer partner’ll think she’s dancin’ wi’ a flag-pole.”
Before Slim, who really did justify his name, could hit upon an adequate reply, Blister cut in. “They say the Trenton dame is awful pretty; wonder if she’ll take a turn with any of us?”
“Zeb’ll ‘tend to that,” Tiny said. “I’m told the banker’s girl ain’t exactly a grief to look at.
I’ve most near forgot how to waltz; let’s try her out, Blister.”
It was an unfortunate rehearsal—for someone else. The two wash-basins were in great demand, and Slocombe, despairing of getting one, had brought in a bucket of water, and, stripped to the waist, was bending over it, sluicing his face, when the disciples of Terpsichore collided heavily with his rear. Head jammed in the bucket, the outraged victim rose to his feet, the soapy contents cascading down his person, and literally drowning the muffled maledictions which came from the interior of the utensil. Tiny, eager to make amends, tore the strange headgear from the wearer’s head. The effort was well-meant, but Tiny was a tall man, his snatch was upward, and he forgot the dangling handle. With an agonized yell, Slocombe grabbed the offending pail, hurled it with a crash of glass through a window, and clutching his almost fractured jaw with both hands, capered around the room spitting out lather and profanity with every leap. The paralysed outfit fought its mirth—one laugh might have turned the comedy into a tragedy. Tiny broke the silence:
“Which I’m damn sorry, Slow,” he said, and his voice contained no hint of the laughter bubbling within him. “We didn’t go for to do it; we never saw you.”
Sudden: Makes War Page 7
