Raw Land

by Short, Luke;

Pres sullenly joined Phil at drag, and Jack moved up to swing. Will rode point, heading toward the nearest jut of the brakes.

  That afternoon the herd was swallowed up in the canyons. It was better driving here, for the cattle couldn’t scatter, and the Raineys hazed them unmercifully.

  Late that night, cutting in from a western canyon, they came to the Quartz Wells, which were on Will’s land. Quartz Wells lay at the head of a broad canyon barren of graze but big enough so that the herd could be accommodated and easily held.

  Two men of the same type as the Rainey boys were camped there, and after a quick meal, Will told them off as night herders, and the rest rolled into blankets. Will gave Pres his own blankets and kept watch himself. This was too perfect to be spoiled by Pres’s seizing a gun and escaping.

  At daylight next morning, the herd was split. Phil Rainey and the two hired hands took half the herd up an arroyo that led off to the north. Will and Jack and Pres headed east with the rest toward the Sevier Creek pens on the east edge of the brakes where the railroad skirted it.

  They made a dry camp that night in a blind canyon, and Jack Rainey spelled Will. Pres had not spoken all day; the splitting of the herd had given him some clue to what was happening. Nor did he speak the next day.

  The cattle were tired and hungry that last day, but they were hazed unmercifully all through it underneath an overcast sky.

  In late afternoon, the arroyos began to slope steeply, and they could see beyond the ramparts of the brakes the faint green of Sevier. The Sevier Creek pens were halfway down the long valley, placed there so that the shippers in the south end of the valley would not have to make the long drive to Sevier.

  The cattle finally pushed out into grass, and Rainey and Pres and Will hauled up.

  Will dismounted and rolled a smoke; the others did, too. Two miles distant were the Sevier Creek pens, a weathered tangle of boards rising out of the prairie beside a sun-scoured way station. On the siding stood a locomotive ahead of a string of cattle cars, its smoke pluming lazily into the overcast sky, then mushrooming above the train. This was their string of cars.

  Will lighted his smoke and regarded Pres. “Guessed what’s up, Pres?”

  “Nothin’ except you’re stealin’ Nine X beef that you’ll hang for.”

  “We’re not stealin’ beef, Pres—you are,” Will corrected gently.

  Pres stared at him with blank eyes, not understanding. Will went on. “See those cars? They’re ordered in your name. And you’re goin’ to sign the bill of lading, too.”

  “Who said I was?”

  Will shrugged. “Nobody’ll make you. But if you don’t I’m ridin’ down to the office and telegraphin’ to Case. I’ll ask confirmation for this shipment. He’ll know somethin’s up, catch the eastbound tomorrow, and come over here. You’ll be waitin’ with a hundred and fifty head of gaunted beef, and so will the cars. What are you goin’ to say to him?”

  “That you stole ’em and took me along.”

  “How you aim to prove it?”

  Pres started to speak, and then his voice died. He looked at Rainey, who was grinning, and back to Will. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I’ll show him the camps.”

  “Sure you will,” Will drawled. “He’d never think you could’ve drove a hundred and fifty head over here alone. He’ll think you refused your hired rustlers their cut and they give you away with that telegram, and then dodged out.”

  “I’ll prove you done it!” Pres shouted.

  “How?” Will drawled. “Case knows my crew is locked up. You don’t even know the names of the rannies you rode with. And as for the other hundred and fifty head, they’ll be scattered fifty ways to Sunday by the time you trail ’em.”

  Pres’s face was black with anger. Will Danning had played this with a cunning that was perfect. Somehow Will knew that Case hated cattle stealing worse than anything in the world; he knew, too, that Case didn’t trust his foreman. Only one thing remained for Pres, and that was to bluff it out.

  He laughed gruffly. “You sucker, Danning. You think I could have worked for Case for fifteen years, and him not trust me?”

  “Nobody trusts a man that keeps his job by blackmail,” Will drawled. Pres blinked, and Will went on. “Now that you and Case are partners, he’ll figure that you think you can get away with anything, even rustlin’.”

  Pres’s face flushed. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about,” Will murmured. He threw away his cigarette. “Well, make up your mind, Pres. You goin’ to sign that bill of lading and load the cattle, or do you refuse and aim to wait until Case catches you with the goods?”

  Pres was caught and he knew it. Will Danning knew about the deal with Case. How? Milt wouldn’t dare tell him, lest his own guilt come out. Then how did he know? Pres thought a moment, and knew that Will couldn’t do anything about it. But the fact that he knew worried Pres. And now Will’s work had put him in a spot that would take some careful squirming. He throttled his anger and considered this from both angles. He decided immediately that an honest foreman’s duty would be to salvage what he could out of the mess and ship the cattle, making the best of a bad deal, then explain. Tell the truth.

  “I’ll ship,” he said curtly.

  Will grinned faintly and murmured, “I figured you would.”

  They loaded by lantern light in the hot and muggy night that presaged a storm. Pres, lest he grab a gun from the agent’s quarters, was set by the loading-chutes to tally, while Will and Jack prodded the cattle into the cars. Finished, the bill of lading was signed by Pres, and the train clanged out into the darkness, showering a rain of cinders on them.

  Will watched the agent bid them good night, then he strolled over toward Pres, who was following the agent inside.

  “Where you goin’, Pres?”

  “To send Case a telegram,” Pres snarled. “You think I’m goin’ to take this without fightin’?”

  Will palmed his gun up and said quietly, “Get on your horse. I’m not through with you yet.”

  “But—”

  “Get over there.”

  Rainey watched, grinning, while Pres went over to his horse. Then, Pres in the middle, the three of them headed back up the arroyo into the brakes. They rode all that night, and at dawn next morning it started to drizzle. They camped, ate, and rode deeper into the brakes.

  At noon, Will pulled up and said to Jack Rainey, “How much time do you need, Jack, to get the beef clear?”

  “Three more days would do it with this rain. Less, even.”

  Pres looked at them, puzzled. Will said to him, “Get off that horse, Pres.”

  Pres dismounted, his little pig eyes wary and angry.

  Will reached back, tossed his saddlebag with the remainder of the grub to Pres, then reached down for the reins of Pres’s horse.

  “What are you doin’?” Pres demanded.

  “Leavin’ you here,” Will said.

  “But I’m lost!” Pres howled. “Why don’t you shoot a man and be done with it?”

  Will said quietly, “We’re over the height of land. All you got to do is follow one of these arroyos out and you’ll reach Nine X range.”

  “And you’re goin’ to take my horse?”

  Will nodded. “It’ll take you three days, I figure. This rain will give you water. If you save your grub it’ll last you.”

  Pres stood there, rain dripping off his head, his red face covered with a sandy beard stubble. In his eyes was pure murder. Rainey, observing him, drawled, “Don’t cry.”

  A fury seized Pres at these words. He rushed at Rainey, and Rainey put a foot on his chest and pushed him over. In his raging helplessness, Pres started to hunt for rocks to throw. There were none, just sand and mud.

  Will left him that way, helpless and furious and afoot, and Rainey headed north. Will, dog-tired, headed for his hide-out to the south and east. He was too tired to wonder if his scheme would work. All he could do now was wait.

 
Chapter Sixteen

  FALSE AS HELL

  Case was in Yellow Jacket for a week after the morning Pres left him for the ranch. During that time, Charlie Sommers had a preliminary hearing and was held on charges of aiding a prisoner to escape. The preliminary hearing for Will Danning’s crew was postponed; without Will, there was no case. And during that week, Case had telegraphed all four of Chap’s heirs stating the sale of Chap’s property and asking if there was any dissent. He got permission from three on the fifth day, and on the morning of the seventh the last telegram came. Will Danning’s property was his.

  On the evening of the eighth day he rode into his spread, and Becky came to meet him out by the corral. She kissed him and then said, “Where’s Pres, Dad? Tip has some news for him.”

  “Isn’t he here?” Becky shook her head, and Case said, “But he left town a week ago.”

  “He’s not been here.”

  Case scowled and turned his horse into the corral. The sun was just setting, and Case, walking toward the bunkhouse with Becky, felt at peace with the world. Riding through his range today he had seen the new green after the rains. The prospect of good grass, on top of the knowledge that all the grass in the Territory could die and it wouldn’t affect his bank balance in another year, gave him a feeling of solid prosperity.

  He saw Tip, Pres’s segundo, step out of the bunkhouse and come toward him. Tip was a grave-faced young man, a far better man than Pres. Right now he looked saddle-worn and hungry.

  “What is it, Tip? Where’s Pres?”

  “I figured he was with you,” Tip said. “There’s plenty up, too. You’re havin’ your beef rustled, Mr. Case.”

  Case’s good humor shriveled instantly. These were the words he had feared more than anything else for the last ten years. He recognized his feeling for what it was—a thief’s hatred of being robbed—but it didn’t help. He knew instant, savage anger.

  “How do you know?”

  Tip told him how he and Barney had come across the sign of cattle being moved into the brakes. They followed the sign until the herd split, one half going east, one half north, and then it started to rain. An hour’s drizzle in that sandy stuff blotted out the tracks, then the arroyos began to run, wiping out the last signs. He recited it in a tired, excited voice.

  When he finished, Case said, “How many head?”

  “A pretty big herd, looked like,” Tip said.

  “And Pres hasn’t been here?”

  Tip shook his head. Becky knew what her father was thinking and she saw his squarish face settle into a stubborn cast. He had never made a secret of his hatred for cattle thieves, and she remembered dimly that long-distant fight with Harkins. It was something he never talked about, but it had left its scar on him, she knew. And now Pres was absent. Intuitively, she knew her father’s suspicions.

  He said to Tip in a kindly voice, “Thanks, Tip. Tomorrow you better start shovin’ the stuff away from the brakes and put a line rider over there.”

  “I’ll take a couple of men and comb them brakes if you say so,” Tip offered.

  Case made a wry face. “It’d take a year,” he said and turned toward the house.

  Becky laid out a cold meal for him in the kitchen; he ate in silence. Becky watched him with troubled eyes, wanting to help him and not daring to let on she knew why Pres thought he could get away with this.

  Presently she said, “Dad, do you think Pres is behind this?”

  Her father looked startled. “What makes you think he is?”

  “Because he knows you’re afraid of him. He’d dare to do anything, knowing that.”

  Case’s gaze wavered, then fell. He pushed his plate away and went upstairs to his room. Becky heard him pacing the floor far into the night.

  Next morning, Case was wearing a gun. The last time he’d worn one, Becky remembered, was the day he’d ridden in to greet Will Danning. Before that, he hadn’t worn one for years.

  That morning Tip sent out a line rider; and afterward, Becky saw them break out the roundup wagon and start repairing it. Case worked with them, just like one of his hands.

  At noon, Becky couldn’t hold her curiosity. “What are you doing with the wagon, Dad?”

  “Roundup,” Case said briefly. “I’m goin’ to find out how much beef I’m missin’.”

  “But can’t you wait until fall?”

  Case looked bleakly at her, his eyes fanatic. “No,” he said bluntly.

  It was after supper when Tomás knocked at the back door, and when Becky opened it, he said, “Pres, she’s come back.”

  Case, in the other room, heard him. He put on his coat and went outside.

  Pres was dismounted, standing in the doorway of the bunkhouse talking to the crew when Case came up.

  Pres said, “I got a story to tell you, Case, that’s goin’ to hurt.”

  Case said nothing. Pres went into the office, lighted the lamp, and sat down wearily. He looked as if he’d lost ten pounds; his clothes were filthy, his beard stubble ragged, his eyes wicked and red from sleeplessness.

  “You’ve had some beef stole,” Pres announced.

  “I know that,” Case said narrowly. “Where have you been?”

  “I was kidnaped!” Pres said viciously. “That damn Danning picked me up at the piñon line camp, took my gun away from me, and made me help rustle a herd of Nine X stuff!”

  Case said nothing. Pres, watching him, had the uneasy feeling that he had never seen Case like this before.

  “Where’d the beef go?” Case asked.

  “It’s shipped. They made me sign the bill of lading for the stuff. Half the stuff was shipped, the other half run off north into the brakes.”

  “Why was half of it shipped?” Case asked in a meager voice.

  “Because Danning wanted my name on the bill of lading to frame me with you!” Pres said hotly.

  Case looked as if he didn’t believe it, and Pres made the mistake of insisting. “Damn it, don’t you see he knows about our setup?”

  “How would he?” Case said thinly.

  “I don’t know, but he does! I tell you, he’s tryin’ to queer our deal, Case! He figures you’ll think that now we’re partners, I can steal you blind and you can’t yell.”

  “How does he know I can’t yell?” Case asked softly. “How does he know you’re blackmailin’ me?”

  Pres settled into sullen silence. Case went on, his voice implacable. “Tell me what happened—all of it.”

  Pres started by telling him of being picked up at the piñon line camp.

  “What were you doin’ there?” Case interrupted immediately.

  Pres squirmed, and then lied. He’d lost his horse in the rain and made for the camp. Then he told of Will and two of his crew finding him, of gathering the beef, of pushing it into the brakes and of meeting two more men.

  Again Case interrupted. “Where’d he get the men? His crew is in jail.”

  “How do I know?” Pres shouted angrily. “He had ’em.”

  “Go on.”

  Pres took up the story, but now he had the conviction that it sounded false as hell, and he was angry. And the more angry he got, the more he tried to insist that it was the truth he was telling. He got to the loading, and Case cut in again.

  “How’d the cars get there?”

  “Danning ordered ’em!” Pres shouted. “I tell you, it was a frame-up from the beginning.”

  Case said nothing, and Pres went on, explaining how he was taken back to the brakes and set afoot, and how it took him two days to reach here.

  “But that’s your own horse you’re ridin’,” Case pointed out.

  “I picked him up at the edge of the brakes,” Pres said desperately. “Danning left him there.”

  Case didn’t speak. He stared at Pres, his gray glance boring into him. Then he said softly, “You’re lyin’, Pres. You’re lying in your throat. Your story stinks to heaven. You knew I’d be in town for a week. You figured now that our partnership was signed, you could d
o any damn thing you pleased to me, and I wouldn’t kick, couldn’t kick. You’d cut in on the big money anyway, and I couldn’t shake you. So you rounded up a bunch of saloon bums and rustled my stock. To alibi yourself with this cock-and-bull story about Danning, you shipped half the stuff and drove the other half off for your crew to sell.”

  “I swear, I never—”

  “You didn’t even bother to go over your story,” Case went on implacably, his voice getting harsher. “Where would Danning get the men? He’s hidin’ alone. And you forgot to mention Milt Barron, his foreman. Wouldn’t Milt have been with him? And you say you were afoot, and yet you ride in on your own horse. And best of all, you say Danning knew about our partnership. That’s a damn crude lie, Pres—it’s the one I gag on.”

  This was a new Case, one who wasn’t afraid to stand up and fight. Pres, seeing it, fell back on the old sneering bluff.

  “Take it easy, Case. You can get just so tough with me, and then I remember Harkins.”

  “Harkins be damned!” Case said savagely. “Where you’re goin’ there won’t be any sheriffs to tell it to!”

  Pres saw Case’s hand streak for his gun, and he acted automatically. He dived for the lamp on the desk, slamming into Case as he lunged. The lamp went out, and a gun boomed savagely in the small room. Pres picked up the chair and swung it wildly and heard it crash into Case, and Case shot again. The shot was so close it scorched the sleeve of Pres’s shirt.

  In a wild panic, Pres clawed for the door, yanked it open, and boiled out into the night. He ran for his horse, leaped in the saddle, and roweled the tired gelding savagely.

  Three more shots came from the door in rapid succession, all misses. Pres rode out beyond the gun range and then pulled up, the lights of the ranch behind him.

  His rage almost strangled him. He’d kill Angus Case the moment he could get his hands on a gun. He’d go back and kill him tonight with an ax, a singletree, anything! And then it dawned on him that he couldn’t. If any harm came to Angus Case, then everything he’d worked for these five years past, everything he’d dreamed of, would be gone. For Angus Case held the deed to the Pitchfork, and unless Case worked the deposit back there in the brakes, Pres would never get a dime.