Guardians of the Sage

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  Jim gave the cinch a savage tug. He was suffering exquisite torture. Letty suspected it and was happy. A hundred little things told her he loved her and was too shy to say it.

  “It’s—dangerous down here,” he said. “You don’t often ride so far alone, do you?”

  “Hardly,” Letty smiled, thinking of the subterfuges she had to use to get out of sight of the house. “Father says I shouldn’t be here at all.”

  “That’s one thing we can agree on,” Jim murmured.

  “Oh—you’re not glad to see me then?”

  “I—I’m awfully happy to see you, Letty. It’s just that I don’t want you to get into trouble. . . . I knew you were here.”

  Letty’s eyes sobered as a thought disturbed her.

  “Then you’ve been up before——”

  “No. Someone saw you when you came in—beyond the Needles. This is only the second time I’ve set foot on Bar S range. The other time I—had a few words with Reb.”

  “I know about that,” Letty murmured softly. “I love the way you belittle it. I thought it was very brave of you to come over and get that boy, knowing you were apt to be killed.”

  “Someone had to come. . . . I don’t suppose it set very well with your father.”

  Letty laughed lightly.

  “You know him too well to make that question necessary,” she said.

  “I guess that’s so,” Jim answered moodily. “Everything I do seems calculated to make hard feelings between us. After Wild Horse and the trouble here I wasn’t any too sure you’d speak to me. I figure a man has to play the game as he sees it. Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing by getting into this fight. Then again, when I see what losing it is going to mean to them, I’m glad I did.”

  “I’m afraid they are going to lose,” Letty mused aloud. “Father seems so cocksure lately.”

  “He’ll find them hard to whip.”

  “That’s the pity of it, isn’t it, Jim?” Her eyes were wistful. “I know the mother of that boy will never forgive us. They must hate us. . . . But there was Billy——”

  “They had nothing to do with that, Letty. Billy was murdered. . . . I’ll be settling that before long.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “I know, all right. That’s just another reason why I want to see your father. I can set him right about several things.”

  Letty was suddenly silent. Jim was conscious of it.

  “Maybe you’d like to be going,” he said. “I’ll help you up.”

  She shook her head.

  “Jim—I don’t want you to get in trouble over Billy. It would be so easy for something to happen. . . . I couldn’t stand that——”

  A pleasant feeling of confusion stole through Montana. He could feel the pulse in his throat throbbing violently.

  “Reckon nothing’s going to happen,” he was finally able to say. “When the showdown comes you couldn’t expect me to walk away from it. I’m sorry I mentioned it; but I’m pretty full of this thing.” In an effort to turn the conversation into pleasanter channels he asked about Willow Vista.

  “Hasn’t changed a bit since you left,” she murmured absent-mindedly. She knew his code; its glorious courage and the quixotic, even absurd, inhibitions it placed on him. Undoubtedly he had said he would avenge Billy. Having said it he would go through with it, regardless of danger, believing his self-respect depended on keeping his word. Nothing she could say would dissuade him.

  “You still ride that big savenna I broke for you?” he asked.

  “I’ve got him down in California now. I call him Mesquite.”

  “He should have developed into quite a horse.”

  “He has. We’re great pals. In the winter, when I know I’ll not be coming back to the desert for months, I get all choked up with loneliness. I tell Mesquite all about it. He seems to understand. Guess he gets lonesome for the high places, too, sometimes. You never get away from this country, so you don’t know how homesick the smell of sage-brush can make you. Mr. Tracey shipped me a box full last fall. You should have seen Mesquite’s ears stand up when he got a whiff of it.”

  Jim decided the conversation had not taken a more pleasant course. The thought of Letty Stall, down in California, surrounded by the luxury her father provided, among cultured men, so unlike himself, made her seem even more remote.

  He helped her into her saddle and fell in beside her, stealing sly little glances at her mobile lips and softly curving throat. It was like old times, siding her over the hills. It almost made him forget the serious mission that brought him there.

  From across the creek, two men watched them until they passed out of sight. They had been watching Montana for half an hour. The little red-haired one glared at the big man at his side.

  “Why’d you knock my gun down, Clay?” he demanded angrily. “I could ’a’ picked him off easy!”

  “This’ll be better, Shorty,” Quantrell replied, venomously. “I said he was a Bar S man—and this proves it! Stuck on that girl, sure as Fate! You saw him moonin’ over her, didn’t yuh? I call this good!” A puzzled look settled on the big fellow’s face. “You know I was only talkin’ when I claimed he was still workin’ for old man Stall; but I’m damned now if I don’t believe I hit the nail on the head! That girl of his was in Wild Horse, and now she shows up in the valley, where a women shouldn’t be. What do you make of it if it isn’t a case of her father knowin’ Montana’s soft for her and havin’ her on hand to play him for a sucker?”

  “Sounds like sense to me,” Shorty agreed.

  “It sure is a break for us. We’ll go back to about a mile this side of the Forks. You can go up to the house and get the boys. I’ll round up Joe Gault and half a dozen others and meet you there on the creek. I want ’em to get an eye-full of this bird on his way down. The way they’re feelin’ now they’ll jerk the air out of that meddlin’ fool and we’ll be through with him.”

  This was cunning that Shorty could appreciate.

  “We don’t want to lose any time,” Quantrell reminded him. “Can’t tell how long he’ll be up there.”

  When he and Shorty parted he climbed out of the creek bottom and took to the hills. He failed to find Gault at home, but Joe’s wife told him he was over at Jubal Stark’s ranch. Cursing the delay, Quantrell rode away at a punishing pace. When he reached his destination he was rewarded by finding several others present—Dave Morrow, young Lance and Jubal’s brother-in-law, Galen Stroud.

  The situation was one made to order for Quantrell. His news came as a bombshell.

  “The two-faced skunk!” Jubal bellowed. “I’m fer stringin’ him up! All his soft talk about waitin’! You can see what he’s after now, can’t you? Wanted us to sit still and do nuthin’ till they’d plucked us clean!”

  All were bitter and expressed themselves accordingly.

  “I’m for makin’ an example of him,” Gault said. “He’s made a fool out of me, for I always had confidence in him; I thought he was right. It’s easy to see he’s been takin’ us over from the start. We better get our horses and ride.”

  When they reached the point on the Big Powder where Quantrell and Shorty had parted they found him and the rest of the big fellow’s outfit already on hand. Shorty said Montana had not come down the creek.

  “We’re here in time then,” Quantrell muttered. Back at Stark’s place he had let the others do the talking. He was taking the lead now. “We don’t know which side of the creek he’ll take,” he told them. “Me and the boys will lay out on the other side; you can stay here. He’ll be right on us before he smells trouble. Better tie the horses to be sure they won’t be moving about to tip him off.”

  “Just remember that we want to take him alive,” Stark called out as Quantrell and his men started across the creek. “We ain’t agoin’ to end this with enythin’ as easy on him as a bullet.”

  “You said somethin’!” Quantrell rasped. “We got a few things to choke down his throat first.”

  Th
e spot he had chosen for the ambush suited their purpose ideally. The willows grew dense there. When they had crawled into them and concealed themselves there was no sign to say that danger lurked there.

  But they were totally unaware of a pair of piercing black eyes watching them from the top of the bank just as intently as they were watching the creek bottom for sight of Montana. It was Plenty Eagles. Quantrell had made few moves in the last few days that the young Indian had not observed. He could not voice his gratitude to Jim, but he was proving it in more tangible ways.

  When he finally slipped away, he moved noiselessly. No eye was turned in his direction. After he had put a screen of trees between him and the waiting men, he came back to the creek bottom and headed for the north.

  “Not letting Montana walk into that trap,” he muttered fiercely. “He make big mistake not letting me kill Quantrell.”

  CHAPTER XVII SPEAKING OF MISTAKES

  MR. STALL had said nothing to Letty concerning the reason for his mysterious journey to Vale with MacMasters. He had returned breathing confidence regarding the outcome of the struggle in which he was engaged.

  Reb had met him with the news that parties unknown were rustling their cattle. It was rubbing him on a sore spot.

  “It’s squarely up to you to spot it,” old Slick-ear had raged. “You ought to know where to look for them.”

  “I’m only askin’ permission to shoot first and ask questions later,” Reb had answered.

  “On our range, yes! That’s first principles in this business! Have you seen anyone?”

  “Last night—but they got away. . . . I’m not underestimatin’ Jim Montana now. He’s pretty smart.”

  The shot told. Mr. Stall chewed his mustache.

  “You may have to look further than Montana, Mr. Russell.”

  “Mebbe he isn’t leadin’ ’em,” Reb hedged, “But he’s standin’ for it; he’s still down there. It gets to the same thing with me.”

  Despite renewed vigilance on his part the rustling had continued. Mr. Stall stormed to no avail. In his mind he charged up every lost steer against the day when the Squaw Valley men should be forced to their knees.

  Although he never admitted it, he was secretly happy to have Letty near him. Her “sprained” ankle had improved slowly and before she had fully recovered he had ceased thinking about sending her away.

  Weeks had passed since he had visited his Nevada ranches. Business in California called to him. Only by mail could he keep in touch with his far-flung empire. He would write for half a day at a time, putting out of his mind all thought of the Squaw Valley strife and giving orders and advice to his foremen, with an eye for detail that was uncanny.

  He was at it today, dispatching a long letter to the foreman of his Humboldt ranch, east of Winnemucca.

  “I am in receipt of your report for last month. In general it is satisfactory. I note what you say about the men. Tom Kelsey has been working for me a long time, but if he insists on going into Golconda and getting drunk, you should dismiss him. It has a bad effect on the rest of the men, and you can’t get work out of him if he’s been drunk the night before.

  I notice in your accounts the amount of meat you have been using. It is altogether too much. I want the men to have enough; but you have a good garden on the river. The men will work better for having more vegetables and less meat.

  Of course it is disappointing to learn that Mrs. Kirk did not come up to your expectations as a cook. I have found that when you have to hire a man and his wife to get a cook you are usually borrowing trouble. Either the man will not do the chores or work with a will at anything, or his wife will turn out to be a very third-rate woman in the kitchen. I advise you to hire a Chinaman. They are clean and waste very little.

  I had been waiting to visit the ranch to tell you about the stove in the dining-room. The legs are wobbly, and if some one bumps against the stove accidentally it will surely upset. I want you to have that looked after while the stove is not in use. A fire would be very expensive.

  In regard to the cellar. The dobe was crumbling badly last year. It would be a waste of money to repair it. You will find it more economical to build a new one. You could place it next to the blacksmith shop.

  I cannot say when I will be down. I note that Mr. Taylor would like to contract for some of our pasture this fall. With the water situation what it is, I am against that. We will need all our pasture, and there is no profit in letting it out and having to repair the fences and possibly pump water for him.”

  A broken window, a leaking head-gate in an irrigation ditch—nothing was too small to escape his attention. Perhaps it would not have been unusual for a man to give such attention to details on one ranch, but he was doing it for a score of ranches spread over four states.

  When thus engaged he was so absorbed with his train of thought that he permitted no interruption except on the most urgent matters. Even Letty, for all her bossing of him, respected his wish in this matter.

  He had seen her ride away that morning. But she had been doing it for some days now and always returning within an hour or so, and it gave him no cause for concern this time. Several hours had passed as he sat at his desk, but he wrote on unmindful of her protracted absence.

  If he had stepped to the door he could have caught a glimpse of her, riding in from the south with Montana beside her.

  Blissfully unaware of the fact that they had been spied on, Jim and Letty had followed the Big Powder north. It gave Montana a thrill to see the old Bar Son a steer’s hide. It was like coming home, in a way.

  Reb had too many men riding the range for Jim and Letty to proceed very far before encountering them. They had not covered more than a mile before Johnny Lefleur cut across their trail. Seeing Jim there was startling enough to leave Johnny speechless.

  Letty called out a greeting to him, but Montana maintained a tight-lipped silence. He knew he was persona non grata with all Bar S men. He did not propose to give Johnny a chance to humble him.

  They rode on. Letty had lost her smile. For a few minutes she had been day-dreaming, but the work-a-day world with its problems and strife had caught up with her.

  They met other men who turned away without a word, contempt for Montana in their eyes.

  “Don’t let it worry you, ma’am,” Jim told her. “I had to expect that or worse.”

  They had just reached the ranch yard when a horseman rode toward them. It was Reb. After his first start of surprise, a sneer curled his lips and he turned away without a word. Montana pretended not to notice.

  “I’ll hardly be seeing you before you leave,” Letty told him. “I want you to know this, Jim. If there’s ever anything I can do to help—I will! You’ll find Father in the front room.”

  She was gone then, without another word.

  Old Slick-ear was seated at a table, his pen still travelling swiftly over the paper as he dashed off another of his endless letters. Jim stood there for half a minute before the old man looked up. The change that swept over Mr. Stall’s plump face was startling. With a snort of rage he pushed his chair back.

  “What you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I came to see you, Mr. Stall.”

  “Well, you’re seeing me! How did you get here?”

  Jim hesitated. “Miss Letty brought me——”

  “That girl!” The old man’s face was purple. He slammed his pen down on the table violently. It splattered ink across his letter.

  Montana explained how he had met Letty and begged her to bring him to the house.

  “Well, you’re here now, and you can turn around and get out! If you think you can come here as an envoy from that cattle-stealing pack you’ve been running with, you’re mistaken!”

  “But we’re losing stuff, too, Mr. Stall—perhaps more than you—and you’re not taking it!”

  “Hunh?” Suspicion and baffled rage battled for supremacy in that hoarse cry.

  “And we are not rustling your stuff!” Jim drove on. “I
’ll prove that to you if you’ll listen. Don’t get the idea I’m here asking for quarter, or speaking for anyone but myself. This fight can go on, but while we’re battling over the bone, a third party is running off with it!”

  It was unexpected enough to take some of the bluster out of the old man. Keen judge of men that he was, he knew Montana was not given to over-statement. He stared at him fiercely but he could not beat down his eyes.

  “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, and he could not have clipped the words off shorter with a knife.

  “I mean that Billy Sauls wasn’t killed in any range feud. He was murdered in the hope that it would stampede Reb into something just as desperate. For the same reason, houses and hay were burned—and the work charged to you.”

  Old Slick-ear bit at his mustache for a moment and then did a typical about-face.

  “Sit down,” he said, his tone almost mild.

  “No, I’ll get this off my chest standing up. I’m too full of it to sit down. I should have tumbled to the game long before I left Wild Horse. I was suspicious, but I never got it right until the last few days. I know now. One man has engineered every move. He killed that Crockett boy just as sure as though he’d held a gun up to his head and blazed away. That boy’s father is the only man on our side who knows I’m here. If I’m caught it’s going to go pretty hard with me—I’ve already been accused of being in your employ. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Well, who is it?” the old man thundered. “Give him a name!”

  Jim shook his head.

  “Not yet, Mr. Stall. He belongs to me. Billy Sauls was my buddy.”

  There was nothing in the old man’s manner to say that he believed what Montana was saying. In his heart he did. And it put a different complexion on things. For the better part of ten minutes he tried unsuccessfully to find out who it was that Montana suspected.

  “No, I’ll get him myself, Mr. Stall,” Jim insisted. “There’s only two or three ways a man could run cattle out of this country. Wild Horse would be too dangerous. To the south, they’d have to go through Willow Vista and, further along, Quinn River. You’d know about it if that was the case—wouldn’t you?”