“Pat Stevens will be here,” Hazeltine told him confidently. “His train didn’t arrive until almost ten. Give him a few minutes to find his way up here from the depot.”
“I don’t understand why you put such faith in Stevens,” Philip Morrow put in impatiently. “Isn’t he just an unimportant rancher from Powder Valley? What makes you think he’ll succeed when others like Morris have failed?”
“That’s because you don’t know Pat Stevens,” Hazeltine answered. “He’s the man who cleaned up …”
“I know all about his past exploits.” Morrow waved aside the explanation. “He’s fast with his guns, of course, and back when gun-speed was all that counted he was a good man, I suppose. But this is a different matter.”
“He’s shipped a lot of good beef in from his Lazy Mare ranch,” Bancroft put in lazily.
“Shipping good beef doesn’t mean …”
“I own a small spread right beside his ranch in Powder Valley,” John Hazeltine intervened. “I’ve known him for years and seen him in action. He’s a lot more than just a gunman. He’s got brains and …”
The opening of the outer door interrupted him. Five heads turned in that direction as Pat Stevens walked into the director’s room.
For his trip to the city in response to Hazeltine’s request, Pat wore a new white Stetson and a brilliant red and yellow silk scarf loosely knotted about his neck. His Levis were old, but clean and unpatched, and he didn’t wear a gun. He was tall and firmly-built, with a lot of muscle concealed behind the smooth lines of his body. His face was strong and sun-bronzed and unlined, with a network of laugh crinkles radiating out from, the corners of his eyes. He stopped just inside the door with his thumbs hooked inside the front of his belt and surveyed the five men with cool interest.
John Hazeltine pushed back his chair and went to him with hand extended, saying heartily, “Mighty glad to see you, Pat. It was good of you to come without any more explanation than my telegram gave you.”
Pat’s eyes twinkled as he took the hand of his old friend. “I’d never turn you down on a favor, John.”
“Meet the rest of our Board of Directors,” Hazeltine said, urging him forward. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Phil Morrow, head of the Breeder’s Association; and Mr. Raine, who owns the bank and half of Denver; Mr. Van Urban, president of the Western Slope Railroad; and Joe Bancroft.”
Pat Stevens acknowledged each of the introductions with a nod and a handshake. As he took Bancroft’s hand, he frowned and said, “There’s a commission house …”
“That’s right, Stevens,” Bancroft told him heartily. “We’ve handled your beef for a good many years, sent you some sizeable checks as I recall. Glad to meet you.”
Mr. O. Manley Raine cleared his throat loudly and sank back into his chair. “If the reunions are over, suppose we get down to business?”
Hazeltine said, “Of course. Take that chair at the other end of the table, Pat, and I’ll explain why I asked you to meet with us this morning.”
Pat went to the other end of the table and took the vacant chair reserved for him. He grinned and shook his head when Bancroft leaned toward him to offer a cigar. He said, “I reckon I’ll just roll my own,” and got out a book of brown papers and a sack of flaked tobacco.
“I know you’ve heard of our syndicate, Pat,” Hazeltine began. “I remember telling you about our breeding experiment up on Sanctuary Flat last year when I was in Powder Valley.”
Pat licked his cigarette and nodded. “It sounded right int’resting when you told it. These here four are your pardners, huh?”
“We all own equal shares in the Syndicate. We’re all interested in improving the breed of Western cattle … except Mr. Van Urban perhaps. His interest is in developing the Western Slope to make business for his narrow gauge railroad.”
“The line that runs up from Pueblo?” Pat asked the engineer. “They do say that was a tough job of building. Didn’t another outfit try it and give it up?”
Van Urban said, “Yes. Some years ago. They abandoned the line as an impossible job.” He shrugged his slender shoulders and spread out his hands.
“The rest of us had had our eyes on Sanctuary Flat for years,” Hazeltine told Pat, “for just such a breeding experiment as we’re carrying on now. It’s eight thousand feet high, absolutely secluded by high mountains to prevent any scrub bulls from getting in and spoiling our breed, the finest stretch of grazing land to be found in Colorado. But it was so inaccessible that we couldn’t use it until Van Urban came along and convinced us he was capable of extending the narrow gauge over the Divide and into the valley.”
“Did you fellows finance the first line that started up there?” Pat asked interestedly.
“We finished it. Most of it was financed by a coal company that later went bankrupt. They planned to tap large coal deposits at the upper end of the Flat …”
“Which would have ruined it for our purposes,” Morrow put in. “We were glad enough when the company failed.”
“You see,” Bancroft took up the explanation enthusiastically, “what we wanted and needed was an absolutely virgin valley where we could start from scratch on scientific principles and …”
“I fail to see,” interrupted the banker gruffly, “how any of this financial and scientific background is of interest to Stevens. Why don’t you get on with our problem, John?” He took out his watch at the end of a heavy gold chain and looked at it anxiously.
“Raine is right,” Hazeltine agreed. “That’s all past history. We started out three years ago with a hundred head of carefully selected three-year-olds, Pat, and we imported the finest-bred bulls we could find. Our first year’s calf crop was disappointing … less than fifty per cent. We didn’t understand it and we brought in more bulls that summer, cut out the culls and tried again.
“Two of our bulls were killed during the mating season,” he went on deliberately. “Found on the range shot through the head. The calf crop was again disappointing, and during the fall a dozen of our most promising yearlings were also found shot through the head. We sent a detective up from the Burns Agency to investigate. He stayed a week and was killed before he made a report. He’d been dragged by his horse with his foot caught in the stirrup, and it looked like an accident, but when his body was brought in, it was discovered he’d first been shot through the head. Deliberate murder … and no trace of the killer.”
Hazeltine paused for a moment. Pat was listening intently, his face very grave.
“That was last year,” Hazeltine went on. “We were shocked by the man’s death, and ready to give up our experiment. We didn’t understand who was doing it, nor why. It was evident that someone was determined we should give up the TB ranch and move out of Sanctuary Flat. But why? None of us could even guess. We didn’t try very hard last year,” he went on ruefully. “We didn’t import any more stock. We concentrated on caring for the best of our first year’s calf crop. But this fall we determined to make one more effort. We imported four of the finest bulls to be purchased in the East. We hired a range detective to ride the caboose up with them, to see that nothing happened.
“That was just a week ago, Pat. He was murdered the first night he was in Sanctuary Flat. And that same night, the four prize bulls were also killed; in the stock pens right by the railroad where they had been unloaded that afternoon. Eight thousand dollars’ worth of pure-blood livestock. Not only that, but it’s too late now to bring any more bulls in for breeding this year. It’s got to stop,” Hazeltine went on harshly. “We’re offering you ten thousand dollars to go up there and put a stop to it.”
Pat Stevens moved uneasily. “Looks to me like a job for the law,” he protested.
Philip Morrow laughed scornfully. “There isn’t any law. Sanctuary Flat is legally a part of Cochise County. The county seat is Las Almas, on the other side of the Cochetope Range. There isn’t even a horse trail into the Flat. The sheriff has to come all the way around to Denver, down to Pueblo, and then up b
y railroad. And what do you expect a sheriff to accomplish when an experienced range detective is murdered a few hours after he arrives?”
Pat shrugged and countered, “What do you expect me to do?”
“We expect you to go up there and clean up the situation,” Hazeltine told him strongly. “You can do it. I’ve seen you in action in Powder Valley. You and your two partners, Sam and Ezra. There’s nothing the three of you can’t do.”
Pat shook his head soberly. “We’re not in that business no more,” he protested. “Sam Sloan’s a family man now, running the Pony Express route from Denver to Laramie. And Ezra has got his own place just beyond that little ranch of yores that lays up next to the Lazy Mare. An’ that reminds me,” he went on in pretended anger. “When yore telegram came I told Sally I bet you’d decided to sell out that spread that I’ve been wantin’ to buy for years. It lies right on to my holdings and ain’t no good to you. When you goin’ to break down an’ sell it to me?”
“Are we to understand you refuse to consider our offer?” Banker Raine put in impatiently.
“I reckon that’s what I’m tryin’ to say.” Pat’s voice was very gentle but it didn’t lack firmness. “There was a time when Sam an’ Ezra an’ me would have gone plumb to hell and shot it out with the devil for ten thousand dollars, but our guns ain’t for sale thataway no more.”
“In that case …” Raine looked at his watch again and started to get up.
“Wait a minute,” Hazeltine interposed. “You’d pay mighty well for those sections of mine adjacent to you, wouldn’t you, Pat?”
“I sure would.” Pat’s eyes glistened. “That’d put Ezra’s ranch right alongside mine, an’ we’ve got plans …”
“It’s not for sale,” Hazeltine said sharply.
Pat’s ears reddened. “I don’t reckon I understand …”
“But I will make it my personal contribution to your fee if you’ll take on the job at Sanctuary Flat,” John Hazeltine went on evenly. “That will be in addition to the ten thousand dollars we’ve voted. You can divide the cash among your two partners and keep the ranch for your share if you wish.”
Pat’s fist struck the table loudly. “It’s a bargain, John. If this thing means that much to you …”
“It does,” Hazeltine said strongly.
“Since that is settled, I’ll hurry along to my conference.” Mr. O. Manley Raine heaved himself up from his chair and nodded to Stevens. “Very glad to have met you, sir. I trust you’ll clear the matter up satisfactorily.”
As he waddled out of the room, Morrow and Van Urban also got to their feet. “As you know, John,” Philip Morrow said acidly, “I disapprove of throwing good money after bad up on the Flat, and I voted against the employment of Stevens. I still think we would do better to abandon the project, but I wish you luck.”
“You voted against it too,” Hazeltine reminded the railroad man with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows.
“That was before I met Mr. Stevens,” Van Urban murmured. “I don’t mind saying I’m impressed and hopeful of his success.” He nodded to Bancroft and Stevens, and followed Morrow out.
“Seems like a right nice little fellow,” Pat mused. “Funny sort to be mixed up in a cattle deal though.”
“He’s all right,” Hazeltine assured him warmly. “We were skeptical of his ability to push the railroad through when we took him into the syndicate and put up money for construction, but he’s a miracle-worker when it comes to laying steel.”
“Let’s get down to cases,” Bancroft suggested. “What do you think of the situation, Stevens?”
“Looks like somebody’s dead-set against you runnin’ cattle on Sanctuary Flat,” drawled Pat.
“Who?” Hazeltine exploded. “Why? We own the entire valley. It was just lying there, untouched and useless until we bought it and extended the railroad. Who on earth can want to block us?”
“You’re forgetting the three native sons,” Bancroft reminded him with a wry grimace.
“Hey, You, and Slim?” Hazeltine laughed shortly. “Three trappers who seem to have lived there always,” he told Pat. “Brothers, it is presumed, though hardly anything is known about them. No one knows where they came from, nor when.”
“Hey, You, an’ Slim? Are those their names?”
Hazeltine chuckled. “That’s what the ranch-hands started calling them when they wouldn’t tell their real names. They practically refuse to talk to anyone,” he went on, “except to answer in monosyllables when spoken to. But they certainly have no reason to resent what we’ve done to the valley. Before we put the railroad in, they had to snowshoe out with their pelts every winter.”
“I still say it has to be those crazy brothers,” Bancroft insisted. “Who else is there? No one except employees of our ranch.”
“That’s right,” Hazeltine admitted sourly. “We’ve got a man named Donald Henderson managing the ranch,” he told Pat. “He keeps a dozen hands working. But we’ve changed them from year to year … and still the dirty work goes on.”
“Haven’t changed Henderson, huh?”
“N-o-o. But he has an interest in the place,” Hazeltine explained. “We pay him a good salary and he’s to get a share of the profits if there ever are any. He’s most interested in seeing the experiment succeed.”
“How about this last range detective you sent up? How many people knew he was a detective?”
“No one. Not even Henderson. When we sent the Burns man up a year ago, he introduced himself to Henderson, but this year we didn’t take that chance. And we picked a man from Wyoming who isn’t even known in this part of the country. I don’t know how anyone got onto his identity. He’s one of the most experienced men in the entire West at that sort of work. His name was Nate Morris.”
“Somebody guessed who he was,” Pat grunted. “You say there’s no one else there ’cepting yore ranch hands?”
“There’s a cafe and a saloon at the depot,” Bancroft told him. “That was a way-station years ago when the stage-coach road ran through there … before there was a landslide on this side that blocked off the road, and the river cut in on the other side to isolate the Flat completely. A woman runs the cafe and there’s an old fellow who tends bar, but they’re both completely dependent on the ranch for their livelihood. They’d have no motive for running us out of there.”
“Somebody shore has,” Pat insisted.
“It’s those three crazy trappers,” Bancroft said again. “No one knows what they think because no one has ever been able to talk with them. My theory is that they grew up from childhood thinking the valley belonged to them and they resent anyone coming in there and civilizing it. If you’re smart, you’ll get rid of them without asking any questions,” he added to Pat. “Don’t worry about getting evidence against them. Who else could it be?”
“You’re probably right,” Hazeltine agreed reluctantly. “No one knows what goes on inside their minds.”
“Why don’t they kill off all yore cattle an’ the TB ranch hands?” Pat demanded. “Ain’t that what crazy men would do if they figured they were getting pushed around?”
“That’s your problem now,” Hazeltine told him. “We want it stopped. That’s all. Henderson insists it can’t be the brothers. He says they haven’t got rifles and only one of them packs a six-gun.”
“What does he think?”
“He doesn’t know. Since the murder of Nate Morris a week ago and the death of those four bulls, he admits he’s whipped. He tried to resign but we talked him out of it.”
Pat Stevens pushed back his chair and got up. He said, “It looks to me like I’ll shore earn that place of yours in Powder Valley.”
“When do you plan to go up to Sanctuary Flat?” Hazeltine asked as the three men moved toward the door.
Pat shook his head. “I’m not advertising my arrival,” he said simply. “Looks to me like that’s the mistake Nate Morris made.”
“Will you take Sam and Ezra along?”
Agai
n Pat shook his head. “The less anybody knows what I figure on the better. If I told you-all an’ then somethin’ happened soon’s I got there like it did to Morris, I’d figure one of you had a hand in it. An’ I’d shore hate to think that,” he ended gravely. “So I won’t be doin’ any talking till it’s all over.”
5
From the Syndicate office, Pat Stevens went down the street to the headquarters of the Pony Express in Denver. It was the first time he’d been in the office, and he stopped at the first desk inside the door to ask for his old friend, Sam Sloan.
“Mr. Sloan’s office is right down that corridor,” a girl told him with a friendly smile. “You’ll see his name on the door.”
Pat thanked her and went down the corridor with a big grin on his face. So, it was Mister Sloan now! The ugly little runt sure had come up in the world. It was the first time Pat had ever heard Sam called ‘Mister Sloan’ and it gave him a sort of funny feeling.
He looked at the doors as he went by, stopped in front of one that said MR. SLOAN—PRIVATE in big letters. The door was closed. Pat hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. He hadn’t seen Sam since he got this important job running the mail route north from Denver, and he couldn’t help wondering what he was going to find behind the closed door.
He was conscious of a faint feeling of relief when he pushed it open and discovered that Sam wasn’t inside. There was a big vacant desk in the center of the office, and a man was working at a smaller desk over in one corner. He was a wizened little man, wearing a black bow tie and black sleeve protectors. He looked up with a frown of annoyance and said, “I didn’t hear you knock.”
Pat said, “I didn’t. Is this here Sam Sloan’s office?”
“It is.”
“Where is the ol’ side-winder?” Pat asked jovially.
The little man compressed his lips and said, “Mr. Sloan is out on an inspection trip. He isn’t expected back until late this afternoon.”
Pat said, “Oh.” He tried to think of something else to say, but he couldn’t. He finally said, “Thanks,” and turned and went out. He had the city address where Sam was living with his wife and baby, and he decided he’d go out there later in the afternoon for a visit with Kitty and to wait for Sam to come home from work. In the meantime, he had some shopping to do for Sally before he went back to Powder Valley on the night train.
The End of the Trail Page 3
