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Title: The Night Riders
A Romance of Early Montana
Author: Ridgwell Cullum
Release Date: July 21, 2009 [EBook #29479]
Language: English
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* * *
The Night-Riders
A Romance of Early Montana
By
RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of “The Watchers of the Plains,” “The
Sheriff of Dyke Hole,” “The Trail of the
Axe,” “The One-Way Trail,” etc.
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
* * *
Copyright, 1913, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
Published February, 1913
All rights reserved Printed in U. S. A.
* * *
He took her in his powerful arms and drew her to his breast
* * *
Contents
I. In the Hands of the Philistines 9
II. Mosquito Bend 26
III. The Blind Man 46
IV. The Night-Riders 68
V. Tresler Begins His Education 82
VI. The Killing of Manson Orr 104
VII. Which Deals With the Matter of Drink 127
VIII. Joe Nelson Indulges in a Little Match-making 141
IX. Tresler Involves Himself Further; the
Lady Jezebel in a Freakish Mood 157
X. A Wild Ride 177
XI. The Trail of the Night-Riders 192
XII. The Rising of a Summer Storm 213
XIII. The Bearding of Jake 232
XIV. A Portentous Interview 248
XV. At Willow Bluff 263
XVI. What Love Will Do 285
XVII. The Lighted Lamp 301
XVIII. The Renunciation 315
XIX. Hot Upon the Trail 332
XX. By the Light of the Lamp 349
XXI. At Widow Dangley’s 364
XXII. The Pursuit of Red Mask 381
XXIII. A Return to the Land of the Philistines 395
XXIV. Arizona 412
* * *
Illustrations
He Took Her in His Powerful Arms and Drew Her
to His Breast Frontispiece
A Moment Later He Beheld Two Horsemen Facing Page 74
Left Alone with her Patient, She had Little to Do
but Reflect Facing Page 302
* * *
The Night-Riders
CHAPTER I
IN THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES
Forks Settlement no longer occupies its place upon the ordnance map of the state of Montana. At least not the Forks Settlement—the one which nestled in a hollow on the plains, beneath the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. It is curious how these little places do contrive to slip off the map in the course of time. There is no doubt but that they do, and are wholly forgotten, except, perhaps, by those who actually lived or visited there. It is this way with all growing countries, and anywhere from twenty to thirty years ago Montana was distinctly a new country.
It was about ’85 that Forks Settlement enjoyed the height of its prosperity—a prosperity based on the supply of dry-goods and machinery to a widely scattered and sparse population of small ranchers and farmers. These things brought it into existence and kept it afloat for some years. Then it gradually faded from existence—just as such places do.
When John Tresler rode into Forks he wondered what rural retreat he had chanced upon. He didn’t wonder in those words, his language was much more derogatory to the place than that.
It was late one afternoon when his horse ambled gently on to the green patch which served Forks as a market-place. He drew up and looked around him for some one to give him information. The place was quite deserted. It was a roasting hot day, and the people of Forks were not given to moving about much on hot days, unless imperative business claimed them. As there were only two seasons in the year when such a thing was likely to happen, and this was not one of them, no one was stirring.
The sky was unshaded by a single cloud. Tresler was tired, stiff, and consumed by a sponge-like thirst, for he was unused to long hours in the saddle. And he had found a dreary monotony in riding over the endless prairie lands of the West.
Now he found himself surrounded by an uncertain circle of wooden houses. None of them suggested luxury, but after the heaving rollers of grass-land they suggested companionship and life. And just now that was all the horseman cared about.
He surveyed each house in turn, searching for a single human face. And at last he beheld a window full of faces staring curiously at him from the far side of the circle. It was enough. Touching his jaded horse’s flanks he rode over toward it.
Further life appeared now in the form of a small man who edged shyly round the angle of the building and stood gazing at him. The stranger was a queer figure. His face was as brown as the surface of a prairie trail and just as scored with ruts. His long hair and flowing beard were the color of matured hay. His dress was simple and in keeping with his face; moleskin trousers, worn and soiled, a blue serge shirt, a shabby black jacket, and a fiery handkerchief about his neck, while a battered prairie hat adorned the back of his head.
Tresler pulled his horse up before this welcome vision and slid stiffly to the ground, while the little man slanted his eyes over his general outfit.
“Is this Forks Settlement?” the newcomer asked, with an ingratiating smile. He was a manly looking fellow with black hair and steel-blue eyes; he was dressed in a plain Norfolk jacket and riding kit. He was not particularly handsome, but possessed a strong, reliant face.
The stranger closed his eyes in token of acquiescence.
“Ur-hum,” he murmured.
“Will you point me out the hotel?”
The other’s eyes had finally settled themselves on the magnificent pair of balloon-shaped corduroy riding-breeches Tresler was wearing, which had now resettled themselves into their natural voluminous folds.
He made no audible reply. He was engrossed with the novel vision before him. A backward jerk of the head was the only sign he permitted himself.
Tresler looked at the house indicated. He felt in some doubt, and not without reason. The place was a mere two-storied shanty, all askew and generally unpromising.
“Can I—that is, does the proprietor take—er—guests?” he asked.
“Guess Carney takes most anythin’,” came the easy reply.
The door of the hotel opened and two men came out, eyeing the newcomer and his horse critically. Then they propped themselves in leisurely fashion against the door-casing, and chewed silently, while they gazed abroad with marked unconcern.
Tresler hazarded another question. He felt strange in this company. It was his first real acquaintance with a prairie settlement, and he didn’t quite know what to expect.
“I wonder if there is any one to see to my horse,” he said with some hesitation.
“Hitch him to the tie-post an’ ast in ther’,” observed the uncommunicative man, pointing to a post a few yards from the door, but without losing intere
st in the other’s nether garments.
“That sounds reasonable.”
Tresler moved off and secured his horse and loosened the saddle-girths.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said, when he came back, his well-trimmed six feet towering over the other’s five feet four. “Might I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing? My name is John Tresler; I am on my way to Mosquito Bend, Julian Marbolt’s ranch. A stranger, you see, in a strange land. No doubt you have observed that already,” he finished up good-naturedly.
But the other’s attention was not to be diverted from the interesting spectacle of the corduroys, and he answered without shifting his gaze.
“My name’s Ranks—gener’ly called ‘Slum.’ Howdy.”
“Well, Mr. Ranks——”
“Gener’ly called ‘Slum,’” interrupted the other.
“Mr. Slum, then——” Tresler smiled.
“Slum!”
The man’s emphasis was marked. There was no cheating him of his due. “Slum” was his sobriquet by the courtesy of prairie custom. “Ranks” was purely a paternal heirloom and of no consequence at all.
“Well, Slum,” Tresler laughed, “suppose we go and sample Carney’s refreshments. I’m tired, and possess a thirst.”
He stepped toward the doorway and looked back. Mr. Ranks had not moved. Only his wondering eyes had followed the other’s movements.
“Won’t you join me?” Tresler asked. Then, noting the fixed stare in the man’s eyes, he went on with some impatience, “What the dickens are you staring at?” And, in self-defense, he was forced into a survey of his own riding-breeches.
Slum looked up. A twinkle of amusement shone beneath his heavy brows, while a broad grin parted the hair on his face.
“Oh, jest nothin’,” he said amiably. “I wer’ kind o’ figgerin’ out what sort of a feller them pants o’ yours wus made for.” He doused the brown earth at his feet with tobacco juice. Then shaking his head thoughtfully, a look of solemn wonder replaced the grin. “Say,” he added, “but he must ’a’ bin a dandy chunk of a man.”
Tresler was about to reply. But a glance at Mr. Ranks, and an audible snigger coming from the doorway, suddenly changed his mind. He swung round to face a howl of laughter; and he understood.
“The drinks are on me,” he said with some chagrin. “Come on, all of you. Yes, I’m a ‘tenderfoot.’”
And it was the geniality of his reply that won him a place in the society of Forks Settlement at once. In five minutes his horse was stabled and cared for. In five minutes he was addressing the occupants of the saloon by their familiar nicknames. In five minutes he was paying for whisky at an exorbitant price. In five minutes—well, he sniffed his first breath of prairie habits and prairie ways.
It is not necessary to delve deeply into the characters of these citizens of Forks. It is not good to rake bad soil, the process is always offensive. A mere outline is alone necessary. Ike Carney purveyed liquor. A little man with quick, cunning eyes, and a mouth that shut tight under a close-cut fringe of gray moustache. “Shaky” Pindle, the carpenter, was a sad-eyed man who looked as gentle as a disguised wolf. His big, scarred face never smiled, because, his friends said, it was a physical impossibility for it to do so, and his huge, rough body was as uncouth as his manners, and as unwieldy as his slow-moving tongue. Taylor, otherwise “Twirly,” the butcher, was a man so genial and rubicund that in five minutes you began to wish that he was built like the lower animals that have no means of giving audible expression to their good humor, or, if they have, there is no necessity to notice it except by a well-directed kick. And Slum, quiet, unsophisticated Slum, shadier than the shadiest of them all, but a man who took the keenest delight in the humors of life, and who did wrong from an inordinate delight in besting his neighbors. A man to smile at, but to avoid.
These were the men John Tresler, fresh from Harvard and a generous home, found himself associated with while he rested on his way to Mosquito Bend.
Ike Carney laid himself out to be pleasant.
“Goin’ to Skitter Bend?” he observed, as he handed his new guest the change out of a one hundred dollar bill. “Wal, it’s a tidy layout;—ninety-five dollars, mister; a dollar a drink. You’ll find that c’rect—best ranch around these parts. Say,” he went on, “the ol’ blind hoss has hunched it together pretty neat. I’ll say that.”
“Blind mule,” put in Slum, vaulting to a seat on the bar.
“Mule?” questioned Shaky, with profound scorn. “Guess you ain’t worked around his layout, Slum. Skunk’s my notion of him. I ’lows his kickin’s most like a mule’s, but ther’ ain’t nothin’ more to the likeness. A mule’s a hard-workin’, decent cit’zen, which ain’t off’n said o’ Julian Marbolt.”
Shaky swung a leg over the back of a chair and sat down with his arms folded across it, and his heavy bearded chin resting upon them.
“But you can’t expect a blind man to be the essence of amiability,” said Tresler. “Think of his condition.”
“See here, young feller,” jerked in Shaky, thrusting his chin-beard forward aggressively. “Condition ain’t to be figgered on when a man keeps a great hulkin’, bulldozin’ swine of a foreman like Jake Harnach. Say, them two, the blind skunk an’ Jake, ken raise more hell in five minutes around that ranch than a tribe o’ neches on the war-path. I built a barn on that place last summer, an’ I guess I know.”
“Comforting for me,” observed Tresler, with a laugh.
“Oh, you ain’t like to git his rough edge,” put in Carney, easily.
“Guess you’re payin’ a premium?” asked Shaky.
“I’m going to have three years’ teaching.”
“Three years o’ Skitter Bend?” said Slum, quietly. “Guess you’ll learn a deal in three years o’ Skitter Bend.”
The little man chewed the end of a cigar Tresler had presented him with, while his twinkling eyes exchanged meaning glances with his comrades. Twirly laughed loudly and backed against the bar, stretching out his arms on either side of him, and gripping its moulded edge with his beefy hands.
“An’ you’re payin’ fer that teachin’?” the butcher asked incredulously, when his mirth had subsided.
“It seems the custom in this country to pay for everything you get,” Tresler answered, a little shortly.
He was being laughed at more than he cared about. Still he checked his annoyance. He wanted to know something about the local reputation of the rancher he had apprenticed himself to, so he fired a direct question in amongst his audience.
“Look here,” he said sharply. “What’s the game? What’s the matter with this Julian Marbolt?”
He looked round for an answer, which, for some minutes, did not seem to be forthcoming.
Slum broke the silence at last. “He’s blind,” he said quietly.
“I know that,” retorted Tresler, impatiently. “It’s something else I want to know.”
He looked at the butcher, who only laughed. He turned on the saloon-keeper, who shook his head. Finally he applied to Shaky.
“Wal,” the carpenter began, with a ponderous air of weighing his words. “I ain’t the man to judge a feller offhand like. I ’lows I know suthin’ o’ the blind man o’ Skitter Bend, seein’ I wus workin’ contract fer him all last summer. An’ wot I knows is—nasty. I’ve see’d things on that ranch as made me git a tight grip on my axe, an’ long a’mighty hard to bust a few heads in. I’ve see’d that all-fired Jake Harnach, the foreman, hammer hell out o’ some o’ the hands, wi’ tha’ blind man standin’ by jest as though his gummy eyes could see what was doin’, and I’ve watched his ugly face workin’ wi e’very blow as Jake pounded, ’cos o’ the pleasure it give him. I’ve see’d some o’ those fellers wilter right down an’ grovel like yaller dorgs at their master’s feet. I’ve see’d that butcher-lovin’ lot handle their hosses an’ steers like so much dead meat—an’ wuss’n. I’ve see’d hell around that ranch. ‘An’ why for,’ you asks, ‘do their punchers an’ hands st
and it?’ ‘’Cos,’ I answers quick, ‘ther’ ain’t a job on this countryside fer ’em after Julian Marbolt’s done with ’em.’ That’s why. ‘Wher’ wus you workin’ around before?’ asks a foreman. ‘Skitter Bend,’ says the puncher. ‘Ain’t got nothin’ fer you,’ says the foreman quick; ‘guess this ain’t no butcherin’ bizness!’ An’ that’s jest how it is right thro’ with Skitter Bend,” Shaky finished up, drenching the spittoon against the bar with consummate accuracy.
“Right—dead right,” said Twirly, with a laugh.
“Guess, mebbe, you’re prejudiced some,” suggested Carney, with an eye on his visitor.
“Shaky’s taken to book readin’,” said Slum, gently. “Guess dime fiction gits a powerful holt on some folk.”
“Dime fiction y’rself,” retorted Shaky, sullenly. “Mebbe young Dave Steele as come back from ther’ with a hole in his head that left him plumb crazy ever since till he died, ’cos o’ some racket he had wi’ Jake—mebbe that’s out of a dime fiction. Say, you git right to it, an’ kep on sousin’ whisky, Slum Ranks. You ken do that—you can’t tell me ’bout the blind man.”
A pause in the conversation followed while Ike dried some glasses. The room was getting dark. It was a cheerless den. Tresler was thoughtfully smoking. He was digesting and sifting what he had heard; trying to separate fact from fiction in Shaky’s story. He felt that there must be some exaggeration. At last he broke the silence, and all eyes were turned on him.
“And do you mean to say there is no law to protect people on these outlying stations? Do you mean to tell me that men sit down quietly under such dastardly tyranny?” His questions were more particularly directed toward Shaky.
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