The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “I don’t remember to have said that I was comin’ over to see your brother,” was his reply.

  “But it would have to be he,” she said, looking straight at him. “You couldn’t come to see me unless I asked you.”

  And now he had spoken a certain word that had been troubling him. “Do you reckon that Two Diamond range boss comes over to see your brother?”

  She frowned. “Of course!” she replied. “He is my brother’s friend. But I—I despise him!”

  Ferguson grinned broadly. “Well, now,” he said, unable to keep his pleasure over her evident dislike of the Two Diamond man from showing in his eyes and voice, “that’s cert’nly too bad. An’ to think he’s wastin’ his time—ridin’ over here.”

  She gazed at him with steady, unwavering eyes. He could still remember the challenge in them. “Be careful that you don’t waste your time!” was her answer.

  “I reckon I won’t,” was his reply, as he climbed into the saddle. “But I won’t be comin’ over here to see your brother!”

  “Oh, dear!” she said, “I call that very brazen!”

  But when he had spurred his pony down through the crossing of the river he had turned to glance back at her. And he had seen a smile on her face. As he rode now he went over this conversation many times, much pleased with his own boldness; more pleased because she had not seemed angry with him.

  It was late in the morning when he caught sight of the Two Diamond ranch buildings, scattered over a great basin through which the river flowed. Half an hour later he rode up to the ranchhouse and met Stafford at the door of the office. The manager waved him inside.

  “I’m two days late,” said Ferguson, after he had taken a chair in the office. He related to Stafford the attack by the rattler. The latter showed some concern over the injury.

  “I reckon you didn’t do your own doctorin’?” he asked.

  Ferguson told him of the girl. The manager’s lips straightened. A grim humor shone from his eyes.

  “You stayed there over night?” he questioned.

  “I reckon I stayed there. It was in a cabin down at a place which I heard the girl say was called ‘Bear Flat.’ I didn’t ketch the name of the man.”

  Stafford grinned coldly. “I reckon they didn’t know what you was comin’ over here for?”

  “I didn’t advertise,” returned Ferguson quietly.

  “If you had,” declared Stafford, his eyes glinting with a cold amusement, “you would have found things plum lively. The man’s name is Ben Radford. He’s the man I’m hirin’ you to put out of business!”

  For all Stafford could see Ferguson did not move a muscle. Yet the news had shocked him; he could feel the blood surging rapidly through his veins. But the expression of his face was inscrutable.

  “Well, now,” he said, “that sure would have made things interestin’. An’ so that’s the man you think has been stealin’ your cattle?” He looked steadily at the manager. “But I told you before that I wasn’t doin’ any shootin’.”

  “Correct,” agreed the manager. “What I want you to do is to prove that Radford’s the man. We can’t do anything until we prove that he’s been rustlin’. An’ then—” He smiled grimly.

  “You reckon to know the girl’s name too?” inquired Ferguson.

  “It’s Mary,” stated the manager. “I’ve heard Leviatt talk about her.”

  Ferguson contemplated the manager gravely. “An’ you ain’t sure that Radford’s stealin’ your cattle?”

  Stafford filled and lighted his pipe. “I’m takin’ Dave Leviatt’s word for it,” he said.

  “Who’s Leviatt?” queried Ferguson.

  “My range boss,” returned Stafford.

  “He’s been ridin’ sign on Radford an’ says he’s responsible for all the stock that we’ve been missin’ in the last six months.”

  Ferguson rolled a cigarette. He lighted it and puffed for a moment in silence, the manager watching him.

  “Back at Dry Bottom,” said Ferguson presently, “there was a man shootin’ at a can when I struck town. He put five bullets through the can. Was that your range boss?”

  Stafford smiled. “That was Leviatt—my range boss,” he returned. “We went over to Dry Bottom to get a gunfighter. We wanted a man who could shoot plum quick. He’d have to be quick, for Radford’s lightnin’ with a six. Leviatt said shootin’ at a can would be a good way to find a man who could take Radford’s measure—in case it was necessary,” he added quickly.

  Ferguson’s face was a mask of immobility. “Where’s Leviatt now?” he questioned.

  “Up the Ute with the outfit.”

  “How far up?”

  “Thirty miles.”

  Ferguson’s eyelashes flickered. “Has Leviatt been here lately?” he questioned.

  “Not since the day before yesterday.”

  “When you expectin’ him back?”

  “The boys’ll be comin’ back in a week. He’ll likely come along with them.”

  “U—um. You’re giving me a free hand?”

  “Of course.”

  Ferguson lounged to the door. “I’m lookin’ around a little,” he said, “to kind of size up things. I don’t want you to put me with the outfit. That strike you right?”

  “I’m hirin’ you to do a certain thing,” returned Stafford. “I ain’t tellin’ you how it ought to be done. You’ve got till the fall roundup to do it.”

  Ferguson nodded. He went to the corral fence, unhitched his pony, and rode out on the plains toward the river. Stafford watched him until he was a mere dot on the horizon. Then he smiled with satisfaction.

  “I kind of like that guy,” he said, commenting mentally. “There ain’t no show work to him, but he’s business.”

  CHAPTER VII

  THE MEASURE OF A MAN

  During the week following Ferguson’s arrival at the Two Diamond ranch Stafford saw very little of him. Mornings saw him proceed to the corral, catch up his pony, mount, and depart. He returned with the dusk. Several times, from his office window, Stafford had seen him ride away in the moonlight.

  Ferguson did his own cooking, for the cook had accompanied the wagon outfit down the river. Stafford did not seek out the new man with instructions or advice; the work Ferguson was engaged in he must do alone, for if complications should happen to arise it was the manager’s business to know nothing.

  The Two Diamond ranch was not unlike many others that dotted the grass plains of the Territory. The interminable miles that separated Stafford from the nearest, did not prevent him from referring to that particular owner as “neighbor”, for distances were thus determined—and distances thus determined were nearly always inaccurate. The traveler inquiring for his destination was expected to discover it somewhere in the unknown distance.

  The Two Diamond ranch had the enviable reputation of being “slick”—which meant that Stafford was industrious and thrifty and that his ranch bore an appearance of unusual neatness. For example, Stafford believed in the science of irrigation. A fence skirted his buildings, another ran around a large area of good grass, forming a pasture for his horses. His buildings were attractive, even though rough, for they revealed evidence of continued care. His ranchhouse boasted a sloped roof and paved galleries.

  A garden in the rear was but another instance of Stafford’s industry. He had cattle that were given extraordinary care because they were “milkers,” for in his youth Stafford had lived on a farm and he remembered days when his father had sent him out into the meadow to drive the cows home for the milking. There were many other things that Stafford had not forgotten, for chickens scratched promiscuously about the ranch yard, occasionally trespassing into the sacred precincts of the garden and the flower beds. His horses were properly stabled during the cold, raw days that came inevitably; his men had little to complain of, and there was a general atmosphere of prosperity over the entire ranch.

  But of late there had been little contentment for the Two Diamond manager. For six
months cattle thieves had been at work on his stock. The result of the spring round-up had been far from satisfactory. He knew of the existence of nesters in the vicinity; one of them—Radford—he had suspected upon evidence submitted by the range boss. Radford had been warned to vacate Bear Flat, but the warning had been disregarded.

  But one other course was left, and Stafford had adopted that. There had been no hesitancy on the manager’s part; he must protect the Two Diamond property. Sentiment had no place in the situation whatever. Therefore toward Ferguson’s movements Stafford adopted an air of studied indifference, not doubting, from what he had seen of the man, that he would eventually ride in and report that the work which he had been hired to do was finished.

  Toward the latter end of the week the wagon outfit straggled in. They came in singly, in twos and threes, bronzed, hardy, seasoned young men, taciturn, serene eyed, capable. They continued to come until there were twenty-seven of them. Later in the day came the wagon and the remuda.

  From a period of calm and inaction the ranch now awoke to life and movement. The bunkhouse was scrubbed;—“swabbed” in the vernacular of the cowboys; the scant bedding was “cured” in the white sunlight; and the cook was adjured to extend himself in the preparation of “chuck” (meaning food) to repay the men for the lack of good things during a fortnight on the open range with the wagon.

  At dusk on the first day in Rope Jones, a tall, lithe young puncher, whose spare moments were passed in breaking the wild horses that occasionally found their way to the Two Diamond, was oiling his saddle leathers. Sitting on a bench outside the bunkhouse he became aware of Stafford standing near.

  “Leviatt come in?” queried the manager.

  The puncher grinned. “Nope. Last I seen of Dave he was hittin’ the breeze toward Bear Flat. Said he’d be in later.” He lowered his voice significantly. “Reckon that Radford girl is botherin’ Dave a heap.”

  Stafford smiled coldly and was about to answer when he saw Ferguson dropping from his pony at the corral gate. Following Stafford’s gaze, Rope also observed Ferguson. He looked up at Stafford.

  “New man?” he questioned.

  Stafford nodded. He had invented a plausible story for the presence of Ferguson. Sooner or later the boys would have noticed the latter’s absence from the outfit. Therefore if he advanced his story now there would be less conjecture later.

  “You boys have got enough to do,” he said, still watching Ferguson. “I’ve hired this man to look up strays. I reckon he c’n put in a heap of time at it.”

  Rope shot a swift glance upward at the manager’s back. Then he grinned furtively. “Two-gun,” he observed quietly; “with the bottoms of his holsters tied down. I reckon your stray-man ain’t for to be monkeyed with.”

  But Stafford had told his story and knew that within a very little time Rope would be telling it to the other men. So without answering he walked toward the ranchhouse. Before he reached it he saw Leviatt unsaddling at the corral gate.

  When Ferguson, with his saddle on his shoulder, on his way to place it on its accustomed peg in the lean-to adjoining the bunkhouse, passed Rope, it was by the merest accident that one of the stirrups caught the cinch buckle of Rope’s saddle. Not observing the tangle, Ferguson continued on his way. He halted when he felt the stirrup strap drag, turning half around to see what was wrong. He smiled broadly at Rope.

  “You reckon them saddles are acquainted?” he said.

  Rope deftly untangled them. “I ain’t thinkin’ they’re relations,” he returned, grinning up at Ferguson. “Leastways I never knowed a ‘double cinch’ an’ a ‘center fire’ to git real chummy.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” returned Ferguson, his eyes gleaming cordially; “an’ I’ve knowed men to lose their tempers discussin’ whether a center fire or a double cinch was the most satisfyin’.”

  “Some men is plum fools,” returned Rope, surveying Ferguson with narrow, pleased eyes. “You didn’t observe that the saddles rode any easier after the argument than before?”

  “I didn’t observe. But mebbe the men was more satisfied. Let a man argue that somethin’ he’s got is better’n somethin’ that another fellow’s got an’ he falls right in love with his own—an’ goes right on fallin’ in love with it. Nothin’ c’n ever change his mind after an argument.”

  “I know a man who’s been studyin’ human nature,” observed Rope, grinning.

  “An’ not wastin’ his time arguin’ fool questions,” added Ferguson.

  “You sure ain’t plum greenhorn,” declared Rope admiringly.

  “Thank yu’,” smiled Ferguson; “I wasn’t lookin’ to see whether you’d cut your eye-teeth either.”

  “Well, now,” remarked Rope, rising and shouldering his saddle, “you’ve almost convinced me that a double cinch ain’t a bad saddle. Seems to make a man plum good humored.”

  “When a man’s hungry an’ right close to the place where he’s goin’ to feed,” said Ferguson gravely, “he hadn’t ought to bother his head about nothin’.”

  “You’re settin’ at my right hand at the table,” remarked Rope, delighted with his new friend.

  Several of the men were already at the washtrough when Rope and Ferguson reached there. The method by which they performed their ablutions was not delicate, but it was thorough. And when the dust had been removed their faces shone with the dusky health-bloom that told of their hard, healthy method of living. Men of various ages were there—grizzled riders who saw the world through the introspective eye of experience; young men with their enthusiasms, their impulses; middle-aged men who had seen much of life—enough to be able to face the future with unshaken complacence; but all bronzed, clear-eyed, self-reliant, unafraid.

  When Ferguson and Rope entered the bunkhouse many of the men were already seated. Ferguson and Rope took places at one end of the long table and began eating. No niceties of the conventions were observed here; the men ate each according to his whim and were immune from criticism. Table etiquette was a thing that would have spoiled their joy of eating. Theirs was a primitive country; their occupation primitive; their manner of living no less so. They concerned themselves very little with the customs of a world of which they heard very little.

  Nor did they bolt their food silently—as has been recorded of them by men who knew them little. If they did eat rapidly it was because the ravening hunger of a healthy stomach demanded instant attention. And they did not overeat. Epicurus would have marveled at the simplicity of their food. Conversation was mingled with every mouthful.

  At one end of the table sat an empty plate, with no man on the bench before it. This was the place reserved for Leviatt, the range boss. Next to this place on the right was seated a goodlooking young puncher, whose age might have been estimated at twenty-three. “Skinny” they called him because of his exceeding slenderness. At the moment Ferguson settled into his seat the young man was filling the room with rapid talk. This talk had been inconsequential and concerned only those small details about which we bother during our leisure. But now his talk veered and he was suddenly telling something that gave promise of consecutiveness and universal interest. Other voices died away as his arose.

  “Leviatt ain’t the only one,” he was saying. “She ain’t made no exception with any of the outfit. To my knowin’ there’s been Lon Dexter, Soapy, Clem Miller, Lazy, Wrinkles—an’ myself,” he admitted, reddening, “been notified that we was mavericks an’ needed our ears marked. An’ now comes Leviatt a-fannin’ right on to get his’n. An’ I reckon he’ll get it.”

  “You ain’t tellin’ what she said when she give you your’n,” said a voice.

  There was a laugh, through which the youth emerged smiling broadly.

  “No,” he said, “I ain’t tellin’. But she told Soapy here that she was lookin’ for local color. Wanted to know if he was it. Since then Soapy’s been using a right smart lot of soap, tryin’ to rub some color into his face.”

  Color was in Soapy’s face now.
He sat directly opposite the slender youth and his cheeks were crimson.

  “I reckon if you’d keep to the truth—” he began. But Skinny has passed on to the next.

  “An’ there’s Dexter. Lon’s been awful quiet since she told him he had a picturesque name. Said it’d do for to put into a book which she’s goin’ to write, but when it come to choosin’ a husband she’d prefer to tie up to a commoner name. An’ so Lon didn’t graze on that range no more.”

  “This country’s goin’ plum to—” sneered Dexter. But a laugh silenced him. And the youth continued.

  “It might have been fixed up for Lazy,” he went on, “only when she found out his name was Lazy, she wanted to know right off if he could support a wife—providin’ he got one. He said he reckoned he could, an’ she told him he could experiment on some other woman. An’ now Lazy’ll have to look around quite a spell before he’ll get another chancst. I’d call that bein’ in mighty poor luck.”

  Lazy was giving his undivided attention to his plate.

  “An’ she come right out an’ told Wrinkles he was too old; that when she was thinkin’ of gettin’ wedded to some old monolith she’d send word to Egypt, where they keep ’em in stock. Beats me where she gets all them words.”

  “Told me she’d studied her dictionary,” said a man who sat near Ferguson.

  The young man grinned. “Well, I swear if I didn’t come near forgettin’ Clem Miller!” he said. “If you hadn’t spoke up then, I reckon you wouldn’t have been in on this deal. An’ so she told you she’d studied her dictionary! Now, I’d call that news. Some one’d been tellin’ me that she’d asked you the meanin’ of the word ‘evaporate.’ An’ when you couldn’t tell her she told you to do it. Said that when you got home you might look up a dictionary an’ then you’d know what she meant.

  “An’ now Leviatt’s hangin’ around over there,” continued the youth. “He’s claimin’ to be goin’ to see Ben Radford, but I reckon he’s got the same kind of sickness as the rest of us.”

  “An’ you ain’t sayin’ a word about what she said to you,” observed Miller. “She must have treated you awful gentle, seein’ you won’t tell.”