by Jackson cole
“Ever see him before?” Hatfield asked.
Cranley shook his head. “Don’t look like any of them nesters, does he?” he remarked in puzzled tones.
“Don’t reckon he looks like any other nester what ever happened along,” Hatfield replied. “A breed — lot of Apache blood, I’d say. Unusual to run across one up here.”
“Been brought in to do dirty work,” growled Cranley. “Things is gettin’ worse by the minute.”
Hatfield knelt beside the dead man and systematically turned out his pockets, revealing a miscellany of articles, none of any significance.
“You won’t find anything to tie him up with anybody,” Cranley declared with conviction. “That sort is always in the clear.”
The lining of the drygulcher’s pockets appeared to interest Hatfield. He studied them for some moments, running a tentative finger along the dusty seams.
“Wonder if his horse isn’t around somewhere?” he suggested to Cranley. “Might be wearing a brand that means something.”
“Not much chance, but I’ll take a look in the brush,” the rancher grunted. He began pushing his way into the thicket.
Hatfield watched under his brows until Cranley was out of sight. Then, with a quick movement, he ripped one of the pockets from the breed’s greasy britches and carefully stowed it in his shirt. He straightened up, glanced once more at the dead face, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
“I’ve found it,” called Cranley, from the thicket. “A mangy lookin’ crowbait packin’ some crazy Mexican brand. Ordinary rig.”
Hatfield examined the shaggy, unkempt pony, which was docile enough. He removed the saddle and bridle and turned it loose to graze.
“Let’s see if we can find the gun the hellion used,” he suggested. “I’m sort of curious about that.”
After considerable searching amid the growth, they retrieved the drygulcher’s rifle. Hatfield examined it carefully and passed it to Cranley.
“Ever see one like it?” he queried.
“Never did,” replied the rancher, turning the weapon over in his big hands. “Golly, what a small calibre!”
“It’s a thirty-thirty,” Hatfield said. “Hits hard and’s got plenty of range. Just the right sort for a long-distance dry-gulching. Not the kind of gun you’d expect a breed to be packing. Costs plenty. You don’t see many of them west of the Pecos.”
“None of them nesters come from west of the Pecos, so far as I’ve been able to find out,” Cranley replied grimly. “Well, reckon we’d might as well head for the ranch house. We’d better ride to town and report this to the sheriff, after we eat. He was out of town yesterday but he oughta be back today.”
Hatfield agreed and they scrambled back down the slope.
The Box C ranch house was a roomy white structure set in a grove of pinons. The barns and other outbuildings were well cared for. The corrals were tight and there was a general look of well-being about the place.
A well set-up young man with a pleasant smile and frank blue eyes was standing on the porch when they rode up and dismounted.
“Hatfield, this is my kid, Rance,” Cranley said. “Just turned twenty-one. Sort of takes after his mother who’s dead. Lucky thing. Two with my looks in one section would be sort of hard on the scenery.”
Rance Cranley grinned, showing a line of very white teeth. He took Hatfield’s hand in a firm grip.
“Rustle up a wrangler to take care of Hatfield’s horse,” Cranley told him.
“I’ll look after him myself,” Rance offered. “Don’t often get a chance to ‘tend to a horse like that.”
Hatfield and Cranley entered the ranch house together. The latter let out a roar to the cook and motioned the Ranger to a comfortable chair.
“Nice place you have here,” Hatfield commented.
“Uh-huh,” Cranley agreed. “My grandfather built it. I was born here, and so was my father. Most of the fellers in this valley are oldtimers. We’ve always kept it unfenced range. That is until that blasted Flint grabbed off the west end.”
“How come you let him get hold of it?” Hatfield asked.
“Damn carelessness,” Cranley returned. “We’d got so used to considerin’ the west end of the valley as open range, we got so we didn’t figure it would ever be anything else. That end of the valley was owned by the Ramirez family down in mañana land. They own about half of Chihuahua down there and never paid much attention to this tract up here; but they always kept the taxes paid up. Fact is, we never figured Ramirez really owned it. Old José Ramirez, the head of the clan, knew what he was about though, I reckon. The Ramirezes held title from an old Spanish grant. We never figured it was much good. Flint was smart. He had the title tested in court before he bought. The court over to the capital ruled the grant was good.”
“That’s happened before,” Hatfield commented.
Cranley nodded, wagging his grizzled head.
“So we found out, when it was too late,” he growled. “If we’d had any sense we would have found out a long time ago and bought up the tract. We didn’t, and dropped smack into a merry kettle of hell as a result. Well, it’s too late to bawl about it now; but if things don’t change before long, there’s goin’ to be a row in this section worth lookin’ at.”
A bland-faced Chinese stuck his head in the door.
“Glub pile!” he squawked, and vanished like a cuckoo in a clock.
After a very satisfactory surroundin’, Hatfield and Cranley headed for town. They found Sheriff Tays, a lanky old frontier peace officer, sitting with his feet on the table and a scowl on his wrinkled face. He swore in weary disgust when their story was finished.
“Just one damn thing after another!” he complained querulously. “There was one helluva ruckus in the Hawgwaller Saloon up the street right after I got in late last night. Some of the Tadpole hands and a bunch of them damn loggers tangled. Like to wrecked the place. By the time I got there, all of ‘em had trailed their ropes, leavin’ nothin’ but busted bottles and smashed furniture behind ‘em, and a couple barkeeps with split heads. I can’t have a minute’s peace since that damn timber cuttin’ started. Maybe it’s good for business in the section, but it’s damn hard on law and order. Seems this section is attractin’ all the shady characters in Texas.”
He glowered disapprovingly at Hatfield as he spoke.
“You had trouble a couple times yesterday, too, didn’t you?” he demanded accusingly.
“Sure didn’t bring it with me; found it here waiting when I hit the section,” the Lone Wolf smiled.
Sheriff Tays snorted like a bull in a cactus patch. “Some folks just naturally seem to have trouble taggin’ along everywhere they go and I’ve a notion you’re one of that sort,” he complained.
“Hold on, now, John,” Cranley put in. “Hatfield didn’t do nothin’ you wouldn’t have done yourself. He did a mighty good chore today, I’m here to tell you. I got a fine opinion of this young feller, John — so good, I’m figurin’ on askin’ him to sign up with my spread if he’s a mind to.”
“You’re always signin’ up hell-raisers!” growled the sheriff. “Look at Pack and Dennis. They’re always into somethin’. I got a workin’ hunch Pack was in that shindig at the Hawgwaller last night. I saw him this mornin’ and he had a cut nose and a cut lip. Of course maybe he just bit himself for takin’ a drink of water by mistake.”
Cranley chuckled, but Hatfield’s black brows drew together thoughtfully.
Outside the sheriff’s office, Cranley turned to Hatfield.
“You heard what I said in there?” he asked. “Well, how about signin’ up for a job of ridin’ with me? I’m short a hand with Tom Dennis laid up, and the busy season ain’t far off. What you say?”
“Notion I might do worse,” Hatfield admitted. “Maybe we can get together. Got a chore or two to ‘tend to first, but I’ll ride up to your place in a couple days and we’ll talk it over.”
“Do that,” Cranley urged, “and keep your eyes open. Lo
oks like you’ve made some bad enemies the last couple days. Havin’ that bunch of nesters on the prod against you ain’t nothin’ to snicker at.”
After parting with Cranley, who was heading back to his spread, Hatfield dropped into the Anytime. The bartender who had served him the night before nodded in friendly fashion and reached for a bottle.
Just as Hatfield paused at the bar, he noticed Justin Flint’s big foreman, Lish Bixby, rise from a nearby table and head for the door. His antagonist of the day before ignored the Ranger, but Hatfield caught a glint of eyes darting a malevolent glare in his direction as Bixby slouched past. He noted, too, that Bixby’s face was cut and scratched.
“That’s a salty gent,” observed the barkeep, following Bixby’s broad back through the swinging doors with his eyes. “He had a helluva ruckus up at the Hawgwaller last night, I heard. Seems a couple cowboys jumped him to start the row that damn nigh wrecked the diggin’s. I was told that feller walloped the hell out of both of ‘em, but from the looks of him, them cowhands got in a few licks of their own ‘fore he put ‘em down for the count. Yeah, he’s a tough hombre, and no mistake. Don’t reckon there’s a man in this section who can knock him off his feet in a stand-up fight.”
“Hmmm!” commented Hatfield, the light of retrospect in his green eyes.
“Uh-huh, he’s salty,” continued the barkeep. “I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with him. Got the look of a feller what don’t forget easy, either.”
“Face looked like he’d been eatin’ his way through a plate-glass window,” Hatfield remarked.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if one of them jiggers used a bottle on him,” replied the drink juggler. “There was plenty busted, from what I was told.”
Hatfield remained some time in the saloon, then leisurely departed and sauntered up Vingaroon Street. He was minded to have a look at the Hogwallow, which appeared to be the focus of disturbance at present.
He found the saloon to be as large as the Anytime, but evidently a shade or two lower in quality. A bar spanned one end, reaching almost to the swinging doors. On the far side of the room was a long lunch counter, ending at an open window that framed a black square of darkness. Attracted by a steaming coffee urn, Hatfield headed for the lunch counter.
“There’s that black-whiskered hellion again,” he muttered as he saw Lish Bixby slide off a stool and start across the room.
Bixby and the Ranger met directly opposite the open window, passing one another so closely as to brush shoulders. Just as they came abreast, Hatfield, whose gaze was fixed on the window he was approaching, hurled himself violently against the big foreman.
Staggered off balance, Bixby opened his lips to roar wrathful protest.
But his voice was drowned by another roar — a thunderous roar that came from the black window square. A yard-long lance of orange flame gushed through the opening. There was a screech of passing buckshot, and the swinging doors, which were exactly in line with the window, smashed to splintered ruin. A man on the far side of the room let out a howl of pain and gripped a blood-streaming arm.
Hatfield and Bixby hit the floor together with a crash that shook the building. Bixby sprawled and floundered, mouthing curses, but the Ranger was on his feet in a catlike bound, guns streaming fire. In a single leap he was across the intervening space and through the open window in a streaking dive. He landed on his feet in a dark alley back of the saloon, caught his balance by a miracle of agility and raced up the alley after a figure, vanishing in the darkness.
The fleeing figure darted around the corner of a building without slackening his speed. Hatfield raced after him, swerved around the building and shot into the air as if he had sprouted wings. He hit the ground with a bone-cracking thud and convulsively rolled to one side.
Flame gushed out of the darkness by the building wall and a bullet fanned his cheek. He rolled again, pawing madly for his fallen guns. To his ears came once more the patter of flying footsteps. By the time he had recovered the Colts, leaped to his feet and around the corner the fugitive was nowhere in sight. The alley was silent, save for the hullabaloo boiling through the open window of the Hogwallow.
Growling an oath, Hatfield ejected the spent shells from his guns and replaced them with fresh cartridges. Then he holstered the sixes and limped back down the alley. He sidled through the narrow opening between the Hogwallow and an adjacent building and re-entered the saloon via the front entrance.
“Smart and salty,” he muttered apropos the vanished gunman. “Squatted down and waited after he rounded the corner, and let me take a header over him. Reckon I arrived so damn fast he didn’t have time to pull trigger before I barged into him. Somebody hereabouts has brains and the nerve to use them. If I hadn’t caught the glint of that damn shotgun as he shoved it over the sill, he would’ve sure blown me and Bixby both from under our hats. We were both plumb in line.”
The Hogwallow was in a boiling turmoil The man who had stopped a buckshot with his arm was bawling his opinion of the whole business while a friend bandaged the injured member. The proprietor of the saloon, a wondrous fat man with a round moonface and shiny bald head, was sputtering profanity over his wrecked door. Everybody seemed to be shouting at once.
Lish Bixby aproached the Ranger, a curious look in his truculent black eyes.
“Feller,” he said, “I’m the kind of a man who don’t forget quick. I didn’t forget you bustin’ me in the jaw the other day, and I ain’t forgettin’ that just a minute ago you saved my life.”
He paused, then added ponderously, “If you’re a mind to, I’d sort of like to shake hands.”
He stuck out a huge hairy paw as he spoke and Hatfield gripped it firmly in his slender, steely fingers. They looked into each other’s eyes and the big man grinned, his teeth flashing white through his beard.
Jim Hatfield suddenly realized that there was an eminently human side to this bad-tempered and salty individual. He smiled in answer, his stern face all at once wonderfully pleasant.
“I’ve a notion, feller,” he said in his deep, musical voice, “that you and I are going to sort of hit it off together after all.”
The Hogwallow proprietor came waddling across the room.
“Bixby,” he squawked in injured tones, “I wish I’d never seen you! Whenever you come in here, trouble busts loose. Just look at my door — all knocked to hell!”
Lish Bixby chuckled. He pawed a gold piece out of his pocket and tendered it to the irate saloonkeeper.
“Reckon this’ll pay for a new door,” he rumbled. “And now let’s everybody belly up and have a drink.”
As he sipped his drink, Jim Hatfield told himself under his breath:
“I’ve a notion it’s me and not Bixby who should be paying for that busted door. But for a while, anyhow, we’ll just let him and the others figure that buckshot was really thrown at him.”
CHAPTER III
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Hatfield again rode out of town. This time he headed north over the wide logging road that wound past the face of the valley wall and into the hills.
For a time the trail paralleled the line of the railroad that ran through Vega. To his left were the yards on whose spurs and sidings stood long lines of cars loaded with huge logs or fragrant sawn lumber.
Hatfield’s eyes narrowed with interest as he gazed upon those newly-sawn boards that smelled so strongly of the forest, and he was thoughtful as he rode on up the trail, the twin lines of steel flowing but a few yards from the deeply rutted road.
But when he cleared the north wall of the canyon, the railroad curved west and entered the great hollow between the valley wall and the mountain to the north.
The north slope of the cliffs that shut in Montuoso Valley were different from the beetling ramparts shooting up from the valley floor. The slope was more gradual, clothed thickly with growth that extended almost to the rimrock hundreds of feet above. The surface of the sag was ripped and scarred by washes and draws, all of them choked with brush. It was
an apparently trackless waste.
Hatfield shook his head as he surveyed it.
“Hard to locate anything on this side as on the other,” he mused. Turning his back on the tangled slope, that extended westward, as far as the eye could reach, he rode into the hills, ascending a steady grade.
As he neared the flank of the mountain, the trail divided. One branch followed the ascending grade of the slope. The other turned sharply to the west, plunged into the hollow, skirting the base of the mountain slope, and vanished around a shoulder of stone.
Hatfield hesitated, then recalling Justin Flint’s directions, he continued to ride northward.
Soon the trail became a cathedral aisle between the great trees that flanked it on either side. Far above, the huge branches shot out their upward gothic arches, a shimmering roof of green vibrant with the music of the wind sighing through the myriads of needles.
The rich, stinging aroma of the pines filled the air, and the trail was dappled with green and gold shadows. All about was the sweet, restful silence of nature, broken only by the soft melody of the harp of the winds.
Hatfield rode slowly, dreamily appreciating the exquisite beauty of light and shadow spread before him.
“Funny that men can live with this all around them and still find time for hell-raisin’,” he mused. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
His mood of peace and contentment was abruptly shattered by the sharp crack of a gunshot a short distance ahead. As he straightened up to listen, he faintly heard someone cry out.
“Something busted loose already,” he growled, and quickened Goldy’s pace.
The trail curved between walls of massive timber, then straightened out. Beyond, the trees were fewer in number, leaving a wide clearing on either side that extended for some distance.
As Goldy followed the trail with pricked ears and inquisitive eyes, he came face to face with another horse less than a score of yards distant. On the horse’s back was perched the figure of a man in logger’s dress, his knees hunched grotesquely because of shortened stirrups. A rope was tied hard and fast to the high pommel of the Mexican saddle, and at the far end of the rope was a man, prone on the ground and noosed under the armpits, who writhed and struggled as he dragged swiftly over the rutted road. Beside him ran a group of men, also in logger’s dress, who cheered and jeered at his futile attempts to gain his feet.
