“I’ll say he is under fire,” said Steve gloomily. “Folks are still gruntin’ about him not bringin’ in Tug Groody for that Slater Job. And they’re beginnin’ to realize that Sam hasn’t done a thing worth doin’ since he’s been in office.”
“We’ll take care of that at the proper time. A bold stroke just before election will sweep him in again. Leave that end of it to me. You get Weston. With him out of the way we can have some chance of acquiring the Flying W.”
“And the Cinchbuckle—how about that?”
“I am taking care of the Cinchbuckle,” Horace told him calmly.
Steve made a fierce gesture. “Do you realize that time is flyin’? I tell you we’ve got to cinch this thing! Man, the thought of it is drivin’ me wild! All those millions waitin’ for us, and we keep feelin’ and gropin’ and pussyfootin’! If I was handlin’ the thing I’d turn Tug loose and strip the spread to the bone, even if we had to slaughter the cattle to get rid of them. Steal ’em clean and they’ll have to sell.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not running it,” snapped Horace. “You must remember that gaining possession is only part of the plan. We must be able to show a clean title afterwards. We can’t keep the thing a secret for ever, and when people learn of it they are going to question our claim to every foot of the land. If we go after the Cinchbuckle hammer and tongs, they’ll be sure to connect up the rustling with our acquisition of the spread.”
“They’ll question our claim anyhow.”
“Of course; but if we are properly covered up they won’t be able to prove a thing. Take this rustling: Weston alone knows that you had any hand in it. His unsupported word is no good. Here’s another illustration: for two months I have been working on Barbara Dawn. I told her that Oement had been jailed for a killing scrape in Idaho, but that I could get him out of it by spending some money. To date I’ve got eight thousand dollars out of her, and considering the depleted state of the spread that leaves her pretty well strapped.”
“Blackmail, huh?”
“Call it that if you like. But even if she should tumble to it, her hands are tied. She has no receipt for the money, and no witness has seen her give it to me.”
“Eight thousand, huh? Added to the four we got out of Clay that makes twelve altogether. Not bad.”
“That is another instance. Clay was dead drunk, and he couldn’t swear what became of his money. Hop Finch and Pug Parsons, however, must be taken care of. They know too much, and when we finally get possession we don’t want any witnesses to hold us up for a big share.”
“I got you.”
“That’s fine. Perhaps we can manage it so that they quarrel and shoot it out. One kills the other, and Sam takes care of the survivor.... Well, we will see. You run along and figure out a way to get Weston. Let him disappear or meet with an accident. It’s your job; see that you do it well.”
“And how about the rustlin’?”
“Definitely off.”
“Tug is goin’ to kick like a steer.”
“Tug can kick all he likes; we’re not going to risk our scheme for the sake of pleasing Tug Groody. The more he kicks, the better I’ll like it.”
Steve eyed his sire curiously, but he had learned by this time that the lawyer’s mind ran in deep, swift channels, and he did not question further.
At nine o’clock, Horace donned his dusty black hat and made his way to the bank. A clerk greeted him respectfully, and Alonzo J. Frothingham personally ushered him into the private office.
“Well, Horace, how goes it?” he asked jovially.
“I was about to ask the same of you. Has the girl come to you for any more money?”
“Not a red cent. The little country lass has a bit of pride, Horace. I’ve urged her to restock, and tactfully offered to lend her the dough; but she refused to accept. Tough luck, isn’t it?”
“It is. And it’s all your fault. When I told you to become friendly with her I didn’t mean that you should rush her off her feet. Since you have become a suitor, she naturally refuses to put herself in your debt.”
“She’s a cute little trick, Horace. I’m quite smitten.”
“Al, you’re a damned liar. I know you. You’ll never be in love with anybody but Alonzo J. Frothingham—or should I say Bert Alonzo, society burglar and stock swindler?”
“Now, now, Horace! No dirty digs. I can toss rocks too.”
“Don’t try tossing any in my direction, or you’ll go back to making little ones out of big ones. And you hate manual labor, Al.”
Frothingham flushed slightly. “Right, old top. You have me where the hair is short. What’s on your mind?”
“I want you to push this hand-in-hand-with-your-patron business. Matt Billings is thinking of running for sheriff. Encourage the movement. Be interested in the affairs of the ranchers. Lend them money. You know the line.”
Frothingham grinned. “I’ll say I do. On their success depends my prosperity, and so on. That all?”
It was, and Horace Moley said so and departed. The pulleys were well greased and the puppets were jumping. He was completely satisfied with himself.
His complacency received a rude shock that evening. As he was leaving his office, Barbara Dawn dropped from her horse and stepped up on the sidewalk.
“Good evening, Barbara,” greeted Horace genially. “What can I do for you? But do come inside.”
“No. I won’t take but a moment of your time, Mr. Moley. I just wanted to know if you had heard anything more from Clement.”
“H-m-m-m. Yes, I have. There is a little hitch: a stubborn turnkey who must be—ah—fixed. A thousand dollars should do it.”
Barbara answered shortly. “I’m sorry, but I’ve gone the limit. The Cinchbuckle won’t stand for another cent.”
He cackled skeptically. “Now come, Barbara; surely you can raise a paltry thousand. Certainly your brother’s safety should be worth it. I, myself, will be glad to lend you that amount on your personal note.”
She eyed him in that level way of hers. “I thought you might suggest something like that. Mr. Moley, I called to tell you that I believe you have already robbed me of eight thousand dollars. I don’t believe you know where Clement is. In plain English, I think you are a cowardly thief and blackmailer.”
Moley gasped his surprise. “Why, you—you—! You’re insulting and slanderous! I’ll sue you for that statement and take every bit of your miserable spread away from you!”
She laughed scornfully. “With no witnesses, Mr. Moley? I thought you a shrewd lawyer! Listen to me. If you know where Clement is, you’d do everything in your power to bring him back to face that ridiculous charge you and your hired sheriff brought against him. I should have realized before that you have been playing on a sister’s fear for the safety of her brother to wring from me every cent I possessed. You produce Clement, well and safe and with the charges against him removed, and I’ll pay you that thousand dollars; otherwise, if you as much as suggest my giving you another cent, I’ll use my quirt across your face.”
Turning abruptly, she walked across the sidewalk, her heels clicking against the planks. At the rack she whipped the rein free, mounted, and rode away without a look behind her. Moley stared after her, rage and chagrin struggling for the mastery; then, with a harsh oath, he turned and walked jerkily towards his house.
He’d get even with this high-handed young lady for the manner in which she had spoken. And she should suffer through her own brother—both her brothers. She must have discovered where Clement was, otherwise she would not have been so outspoken; and if she knew, Clay knew too. And Clay was weak. Also he liked to gamble. By the time he reached his house the wolf fangs were showing in a sour grin.
Steve Moley, in the meanwhile, had crossed to the Palace. His father had given him a definite assignment, and a little liquid refreshment might help in the devising of ways and means of removing the inconvenient Barry Weston. There was not much doing inside; the gaming tables were deserted at this ea
rly hour and even Ace Palmateer was missing. One bartender looked after the wants of a scant half dozen drinkers, and the silence, after the raucous clamor of the night, was a bit oppressive.
Steve looked about him and saw the girl, Lola, seated by herself at a table. She wore a colorful Mexican dress, and a single artificial red rose adorned her black hair; nevertheless, she looked sad and pensive. Steve signaled the bartender and seated himself opposite her.
“Hello, Lola,” he greeted.
“ ‘Ella,” she replied listlessly.
“Say, what’s the matter with you? Why ain’t you in bed?”
“I cannot sleep. Me, I’m not feel good.”
“Huh. Well, here’s somethin’ to cheer you up. Down the hatch, chiquita.”
Lola set the glass on the table after the smallest sip of its contents. Steve eyed her suspiciously. “You sure are off your feed. You in love?”
“Loff?” She laughed bitterly. “Quien sabe?”
He leaned over the table. “Is it with me, kid?”
She surveyed him from beneath lowered lashes. “You want from mak me laff?”
“Nothin’ funny about it. You’d better not let me catch you lovin’ anybody else.” A sudden thought struck him. “Sa-a-y, it ain’t that lanky Barry Weston, is it?”
“Bar-ree Wes-ton?” she repeated after him.
“You know; that jigger Sam Hodge arrested. By jacks, I’ll bet it is! You horned in then, and you’d never seen him before. And later somebody tipped him off—Lola, damn you, it was you!”
“You are talk crazee,” she told him coldly. “W’en I’m see heem to teep heem off? I’m ask heem to dance with me, and he say no. Why should I teep heem off?”
“Because you’re in love with him! Shove a fella six feet in the air and slap a head of curly hair on him, and the girls go crazy.”
She shrugged. “Ees my business to act crazee over many men. That beeg fat peeg you call Hop Finch, I pull hees ears lak he ees a dog and tell heem I’m lak heem so he ees buy many dreenk. An’ the tall miner who ees call’ Olsen, he ees ogly lak the cow; but he has moch gold, so I tell heem I’m lake beeg men. An’ Steve Moley ees spend moch money on me, so sometam I’m tell heem I lak heem.”
“So that’s it, huh? It’s the dough I spend on you that you like. Well, let me tell you this, you little cat—”
Lola laughed musically and shook her head. “He ees so fonny! An’ he ees not theenk that maybe Lola talk jus’ to mak heem an-gry.”
Steve’s ire died, and a slow grin came over his face. “You little devil, you! Don’t you go playin’ with me like that. Now drink up like a soldier, and then I’ll have to go. Man over there I want to talk to.”
He tossed off what was left of his drink and got up. At the far end of the room, slumped behind a table, was Chet Lewis. Steve sat down opposite Barry’s step-father, eyed him speculatively for a moment, then motioned to the glass which stood before him.
“Drink up, and I’ll buy another. You look like you need it. What’s wrong?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong.”
“No? How’s that pet step-son of yours?” He saw Chet’s eyes flame and laughed shortly. “Listen, Chet; I’m not wastin’ any words. You hate the son, and so do I. You aim to pass up that quirtin’ he gave you?”
“By Godfrey, no!”
All right. Now listen good. That spread belongs as much to you as it does to anybody. I want you to go back there today. Tell Weston you’re sorry; dig in and work like the devil—today.”
“Steve, I won’t do it.”
“Yes you will. I want to get hold of Weston quietly, and have Tug Groody take him so far away he’ll never get back. That means he must be nailed when he ain’t expectin’ it. You’re the man to turn the trick.”
Chet’s bloodshot eyes showed a flare of interest. “How’ll I do it?”
“Use your head for somethin’ besides a hat peg. You’ll be in the house with him, won’t you? You ought to be able to find some way of puttin’ him to sleep and tyin’ him up. Tug will do the rest. Hang a lantern in the window and he’ll come a-humpin’. All you got to say is that Weston rode away some time durin’ the night.”
Chet was fumbling at the stubble on his chin. “Mebbe I could manage it.”
“Just think of that quirtin’ he gave you and you can.” Steve got to his feet. “Make it tonight. I’ll get in touch with Tug.”
Chet Lewis nodded jerkily and reached for the glass before him. With it half way to his lips he paused. When he went back to the Flying W he must go sober or Barry would quirt him out of the house. Besides, he would need all his wits. Maybe just a little nip before he pulled it off. He sat there frowning into space as he puzzled over the manner in which to render his stepson helpless.
Presently he got up and shuffled to Bascomb’s store, where he purchased some shot and a buckskin bag. He poured the former into the latter and tied the poke with rawhide. It made a formidable weapon, capable of stunning without killing. That evening he ate supper at a restaurant, then rode to the ranch.
Barry was not at home, but Mrs. Lewis was seated on the gallery, and, using his head as Steve had suggested, Chet greeted her in a friendly manner and helped her. to her room. He had prepared supper for her and was placing it on a tray when Barry entered the kitchen.
“So you’re back. Where’s ma?”
“I helped her to her room. I was jest fixin’ to take these victuals to her.”
Barry scanned the tray, found the food satisfactory. “Good enough. Take it in.”
Lewis shuffled his feet embarrassedly. “Uh—Barry, I reckon I sort of got off on the wrong foot the other day. It was the liquor talkin’. I aim to pitch in and help you from here on.”
Barry eyed him skeptically. Chet refused to meet his gaze, and Barry believed real repentance to be entirely out of character in this man.
“Let it ride,” he said. “I’ll meet you halfway any direction you jump.”
A bit to his surprise, Chet washed the supper dishes and brushed about with a broom; so Barry spent some time reading to his mother. When she finally fell asleep, he went quietly about the house locking up. Chet was waiting for him in the living room.
“Barry,” he said, “I’d sure admire to sleep inside. Now that I am to straighten out it ain’t right for me to bunk with the hands.”
“Suits me. You can take the spare bedroom.”
Chet nodded and turned away. Once inside the room, however, his expression changed from that of almost servile docility to one of unleashed hatred.
“Danged upstart!” he muttered, and drew the bag of shot from his pocket. For a short while he fondled it, testing its weight, then placed it beneath a pillow and undressed. He lay on the bed in the darkened room, listening to the distant chimes of the living room clock as it tolled off the hours. Nine—ten—eleven—twelve.
Chet got silently to his feet, the bag of shot in his hand. Softly he opened the door and tiptoed into the hall. The room he occupied was between that of Barry and his wife’s. He listened at the doorway of each in turn, knew from the sounds that both slept. Barry’s door was slightly ajar; Chet touched it with a shaking hand, groaned inwardly with the realization that he could not go through with it yet.
Shuffling noiselessly to the kitchen, he felt around until he located the bottle of whiskey he had hidden there. From it he took a deep draught, wiped his lips nervously, raised the bottle again. The liquor warmed and exhilarated. Outside somewhere Tug Groody waited, he told himself. If he didn’t make a good job of it a yell would bring him. He returned to his room, lighted the lamp, and hurried with it to the hall.
This time he did not hesitate. The lamp in his left hand, the bag of shot in his right, he pushed open the door and hurried to Barry’s bed. He had decided that it would be impossible to surprise his step-son; nevertheless, he recoiled from the gun which emerged from beneath the covers.
“D-don’t shoot!” he stammered. Then as Barry swung his legs to the floor, “I
t’s your rna, Barry. I looked in at her a minute ago. Had a hunch somethin’ was wrong. She was layin’ there so still and white that I come for you right off. I—I’m afraid. You’d better look at her.”
With an exclamation of alarm, Barry dropped the gun on a chair and sprang to his feet. Ignoring Lewis, he strode swiftly towards the door; and as he passed, Chet drew the shot bag from behind him, raised it swiftly, and brought it down on Barry’s head with all the force he could muster. Barry, carried by his own momentum, staggered forward a stride, then his knees buckled and he plunged to the floor and lay still.
Quaking with a sudden fear, Chet watched the still form, the lighted lamp rattling in his shaking hand. With an oath, he placed the lamp on the washstand and sped silently to his room. From the chair on which he had placed them he took a coil of rope and an opened clasp knife. Pausing only long enough to assure himself that his wife had not been disturbed, he ran to Barry’s room and proceeded to bind him securely, completing the job by gagging him with a scarf.
Back in the kitchen he lighted the lantern and set it on a window sill. Apprehension gripped him. Suppose Tug did not come? Suppose the two new cowhands noticed the light and came over to investigate? Sweating with fear, Chet seized the half empty bottle and raised it to his lips. A slight sound on the step outside brought him sharply erect, staring.
The door opened and Tug Groody stepped into the room.
CHAPTER IX
GOOD FISHING
ALONZO J. FROTHINGHAM sought out Matt Billings the day after his talk with Horace Moley. He timed his ride so as to arrive at the MB at noon when he would be sure to catch Matt at the dinner table. Billings immediately invited the banker to join him.
“Ain’t often I draw a bank president to eat with,” grinned Matt.
“If I had my way the opportunity would be yours quite often,” replied Frothingham. “I want to know you Basin ranchers better. It is your patronage which keeps my bank operating. We should work together; your problems should be my problems.”
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 8
