The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “I reckon you remember our contract?” he questioned.

  The stray-man nodded. “I was to find out who was stealin’ your cattle,” he said.

  Stafford smiled slightly. “Correct!” he returned. “You’ve showed me two thieves. But a while ago I heard you say that there was two more. Our contract ain’t fulfilled until you show me them too. You reckon?”

  The stray-man drew a deep, resigned breath. “I expect that’s right,” he admitted. “But I’ve told you where you can find them. All you’ve got to do is to ride over there an’ catch them.”

  Stafford’s smile widened a little. “Sure,” he returned, “that’s all I’ve got to do. An’ I’m goin’ to do it. But I’m wantin’ my range boss to take charge of the outfit that’s goin’ over to ketch them.”

  “Your range boss?” said Ferguson, a flash of interest in his eyes, “Why, your range boss ain’t here any more.”

  Stafford leaned forward, speaking seriously. “I’m talkin’ to my range boss right now!” he said significantly.

  Ferguson started, and a tinge of slow color came into his face. He drew a deep breath and took a step forward. But suddenly he halted, his lips straightening again.

  “I’m thankin’ you,” he said slowly. “But I’m leavin’ the Two Diamond.” He drew himself up, looking on the instant more his old indomitable self. “I’m carryin’ out our contract though,” he added. “If you’re wantin’ me to go after them other two men, I ain’t backin’ out. But you’re takin’ charge of the outfit. I ain’t goin’ to be your range boss.”

  An hour later ten of the Two Diamond men, accompanied by Stafford and the stray-man, loped their horses out on the plains toward the river. It was a grim company on a grim mission, and the men forbore to joke as they rode through the dust and sunshine of the afternoon. Ferguson rode slightly in advance, silent, rigid in the saddle, not even speaking to Stafford, who rode near him.

  Half an hour after leaving the Two Diamond they rode along the crest of a ridge of hills above Bear Flat. They had been riding here only a few minutes when Stafford, who had been watching the stray-man, saw him start suddenly. The manager turned and followed the stray-man’s gaze.

  Standing on a porch in front of a cabin on the other side of the flat was a woman. She was watching them, her hands shading her eyes. Stafford saw the stray-man suddenly dig his spurs into his pony’s flanks, saw a queer pallor come over his face. Five minutes later they had ridden down through a gully to the plains. Thereafter, even the hard riding Two Diamond boys found it difficult to keep near the stray-man.

  Something over two hours later the Two Diamond outfit, headed by the stray-man, clattered down into a little basin, where Ferguson had seen the cabin two days before. As the Two Diamond men came to within a hundred feet of the cabin two men, who had been at work in a small corral, suddenly dropped their branding irons and bolted toward the cabin. But before they had time to reach the door the Two Diamond men had surrounded them, sitting grimly and silently in their saddles. Several of Stafford’s men had drawn their weapons, but were now returning them to their holsters, for neither of the two men was armed. They stood within the grim circle, embarrassed, their heads bowed, their attitude revealing their shame at having been caught so easily. One of the men, a clear, steady-eyed fellow, laughed frankly.

  “Well, we’re plum easy, ain’t we boys?” he said, looking around at the silent group. “Corraled us without lettin’ off a gun. That’s what I’d call re-diculous. You’re right welcome. But mebbe you wouldn’t have had things so easy if we hadn’t left our guns in the cabin. Eh, Bill?” he questioned, prodding the other man playfully in the ribs.

  But the other man did not laugh. He stood before them, his embarrassment gone, his eyes shifting and fearful.

  “Shut up, you damn fool!” he snarled.

  But the clear-eyed man gave no attention to this outburst. “You’re Two Diamond men, ain’t you?” he asked, looking full at Ferguson.

  The latter nodded, and the clear-eyed man continued. “Knowed you right off,” he declared, with a laugh. “Leviatt pointed you out to me one day when you was ridin’ out yonder.” He jerked a thumb toward the distance. “Leviatt told me about you. Wanted to try an’ plug you with his six, but decided you was too far away.” He laughed self-accusingly. “If you’d been half an hour later, I reckon you wouldn’t have proved your stock, but we loafed a heap, an’ half of that bunch ain’t got our brand.”

  “We didn’t need to look at no brand,” declared Stafford grimly.

  The clear-eyed man started a little. Then he laughed. “Then you must have got Leviatt an’ Tucson,” he said. He turned to Ferguson. “If Leviatt has been got,” he said, “it must have been you that got him. He told me he was runnin’ in with you some day. I kept tellin’ him to be careful.”

  Ferguson’s eyelashes twitched a little. “Thank you for the compliment,” he said.

  “Aw, hell!” declared the man, sneering. “I wasn’t mushin’ none!”

  Stafford had made a sign to the men and some of them dismounted and approached the two rustlers. The man who had profanely admonished the other to silence made some little resistance, but in the end he stood within the circle, his hands tied behind him. The clear-eyed man made no resistance, seeming to regard the affair in the light of a huge joke. Once, while the Two Diamond men worked at his hands, he told them to be careful not to hurt him.

  “I’m goin’ to be hurt enough, after a while,” he added.

  There was nothing more to be done. The proof of guilt was before the Two Diamond men, in the shape of several calves in the small corral that still bore the Two Diamond brand. Several of the cows were still adorned with the Two Diamond ear mark, and in addition to this was Ferguson’s evidence. Therefore the men’s ponies were caught up, saddled, and the two men forced to mount. Then the entire company rode out of the little gully through which the Two Diamond outfit had entered, riding toward the cottonwood that skirted the river—miles away.

  A little while before sunset the cavalcade rode to the edge of the cottonwood. Stafford halted his pony and looked at Ferguson, but the stray-man had seen enough tragedy for one day and he shook his head, sitting gloomily in the saddle.

  “I’m waitin’ here,” he said simply. “There’ll be enough in there to do it without me.”

  The clear-eyed man looked at him with a grim smile.

  “Why, hell!” he said. “You ain’t goin’ in?” his eyes lighted for an instant. “I reckon you’re plum white!” he declared. “You ain’t aimin’ to see any free show.”

  “I’m sayin’ so-long to you,” returned Ferguson. “You’re game.” A flash of admiration lighted his eyes.

  The clear-eyed man smiled enigmatically. “I’m stayin’ game!” he declared grimly, without boast. “An’ now I’m tellin’ you somethin’. Yesterday Leviatt told me he’d shot Ben Radford. He said he’d lied to Ben about you an’ that he’d shot him so’s his sister would think you done it. You’ve been white, an’ so I’m squarin’ things for you. I’m wishin’ you luck.”

  For an instant he sat in the saddle, watching a new color surge into the stray-man’s face. Then his pony was led away, through a tangle of undergrowth at the edge of the cottonwood. When Ferguson looked again, the little company had ridden into the shadow, but Ferguson could make out the clear-eyed man, still erect in his saddle, still seeming to wear an air of unstudied nonchalance. For a moment longer Ferguson saw him, and then he was lost in the shadows.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE END OF THE STORY

  Two weeks later Ferguson had occasion to pass through Bear Flat. Coming out of the flat near the cottonwood he met Ben Radford. The latter, his shoulder mending rapidly, grinned genially at the stray-man.

  “I’m right sorry I made that mistake, Ferguson,” he said; “but Leviatt sure did give you a bad reputation.”

  Ferguson smiled grimly. “He won’t be sayin’ bad things about anyone else,” he said. And then his e
yes softened. “But I’m some sorry for the cuss,” he added.

  “He had it comin’,” returned Ben soberly. “An’ I’d rather it was him than me.” He looked up at Ferguson, his eyes narrowing quizzically. “You ain’t been around here for a long time,” he said. “For a man who’s just been promoted to range boss you’re unnaturally shy.”

  Ferguson smiled. “I ain’t paradin’ around showin’ off,” he returned. “Someone might take it into their head to bore me with a rifle bullet.”

  Radford’s grin broadened. “I reckon you’re wastin’ valuable time,” he declared. “For I happen to know that she wouldn’t throw nothing worse’n a posy at you!”

  “You don’t say?” returned Ferguson seriously. “I reckon—”

  He abruptly turned his pony down the trail that led to the cabin. As he rode up to the porch there was a sudden movement, a rustle, a gasp of astonishment, and Mary Radford stood in the doorway looking at him. For a moment there was a silence that might have meant many things. Both were thinking rapidly over the events of their last meeting at this very spot. Then Ferguson moved uneasily in the saddle.

  “You got that there rifle anywheres handy?” he asked, grinning at her.

  Her eyes drooped; one foot nervously pushed out the hem of her skirts. Then she laughed, flushing crimson.

  “It wasn’t loaded anyway,” she said.

  The sunset was never more beautiful than to-day on the hill in Bear Flat. Mary Radford sat on the rock in her accustomed place and stretched out, full length beside her, was Ferguson. He was looking out over the flat, at the shadows of the evening that were advancing slowly toward the hill.

  She turned toward him, her eyes full and luminous. “I am almost at the end of my story,” she said smiling at him. “But,” and her forehead wrinkled perplexedly, “I find the task of ending it more difficult than I had anticipated. It’s a love scene,” she added banteringly; “do you think you could help me?”

  He looked up at her. “I reckon I could help you in a real love scene,” he said, “but I ain’t very good at pretendin’.”

  “But this is a real love scene,” she replied stoutly; “I am writing it as it actually occurred to me. I have reached the moment when you—I mean the hero—has declared his love for me,—of course (with a blush) I mean the heroine, and she has accepted him. But they are facing a problem. In the story he has been a cowpuncher and of course has no permanent home. And of course the reader will expect me to tell how they lived after they had finally decided to make life’s journey together. Perhaps you can tell me how the hero should go about it.”

  “Do you reckon that any reader is that inquisitive?” he questioned.

  “Why of course.”

  He looked anxiously at her. “In that case,” he said, “mebbe the reader would want to know what the heroine thought about it. Would she want to go back East to live—takin’ her cowpuncher with her to show off to her Eastern friends?”

  She laughed. “I thought you were not very good at pretending,” she said, “and here you are trying to worm a declaration of my intentions out of me. You did not need to go about that so slyly,” she told him, with an earnestness that left absolutely no doubt of her determination, “for I am going to stay right here. Why,” she added, taking a deep breath, and a lingering glance at the rift in the mountains where the rose veil descended, “I love the West.”

  He looked at her, his eyes narrowing with sympathy. “I reckon it’s a pretty good little old country,” he said. He smiled broadly. “An’ now I’m to tell you how to end your story,” he said, “by givin’ you the hero’s plans for the future. I’m tellin’ you that they ain’t what you might call elaborate. But if your inquisitive reader must know about them, you might say that Stafford is givin’ his hero—I’m meanin’, of course, his range boss—a hundred dollars a month—bein’ some tickled over what his range boss has done for him.

  “An’ that there range boss knows when he’s got a good thing. He’s goin’ to send to Cimarron for a lot of stuff—fixin’s an’ things for the heroine,—an’ he’s goin’ to make a proposition to Ben Radford to make his cabin a whole lot bigger. Then him an’ the heroine is goin’ to live right there—right where the hero meets the heroine the first time—when he come there after bein’ bit by a rattler. An’ then if any little heroes or heroines come they’d have—”

  Her hand was suddenly over his mouth. “Why—why—” she protested, trying her best to look scornful—“do you imagine that I would think of putting such a thing as that into my book?”

  He grinned guiltily. “I don’t know anything about writin’,” he said, properly humbled, “but I reckon it wouldn’t be any of the reader’s business.”

  THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y

  Originally published in 1915.

  CHAPTER I

  THE HOME-COMING OF CALUMET MARSTON

  Shuffling down the long slope, its tired legs moving automatically, the drooping pony swerved a little and then came to a halt, trembling with fright. Startled out of his unpleasant ruminations, his lips tensing over his teeth in a savage snarl, Calumet Marston swayed uncertainly in the saddle, caught himself, crouched, and swung a heavy pistol to a menacing poise.

  For an instant he hesitated, searching the immediate vicinity with rapid, intolerant glances. When his gaze finally focused on the object which had frightened his pony, he showed no surprise. Many times during the past two days had this incident occurred, and at no time had Calumet allowed the pony to follow its inclination to bolt or swerve from the trail. He held it steady now, pulling with a vicious hand on the reins.

  Ten feet in front of the pony and squarely in the center of the trail a gigantic diamond-back rattler swayed and warned, its venomous, lidless eyes gleaming with hate. Calumet’s snarl deepened, he dug a spur into the pony’s left flank, and pulled sharply on the left rein. The pony lunged, swerved, and presented its right shoulder to the swaying reptile, its flesh quivering from excitement. Then the heavy revolver in Calumet’s hand roared spitefully, there was a sudden threshing in the dust of the trail, and the huge rattler shuddered into a sinuous, twisting heap. For an instant Calumet watched it, and then, seeing that the wound he had inflicted was not mortal, he urged the pony forward and, leaning over a little, sent two more bullets into the body of the snake, severing its head from its body.

  “Man’s size,” declared Calumet, his snarl relaxing. He sat erect and spoke to the pony:

  “Get along, you damned fool! Scared of a side-winder!”

  Relieved, deflating its lungs with a tremulous heave, and unmindful of Calumet’s scorn, the pony gingerly returned to the trail. In thirty seconds it had resumed its drooping shuffle, in thirty seconds Calumet had returned to his unpleasant ruminations.

  A mile up in the shimmering white of the desert sky an eagle swam on slow wing, shaping his winding course toward the timber clump that fringed a river. Besides the eagle, the pony, and Calumet, no living thing stirred in the desert or above it. In the shade of a rock, perhaps, lurked a lizard, in the filmy mesquite that drooped and curled in the stifling heat slid a rattler, in the shelter of the sagebrush the sage hen might have nestled her eggs in the hot sand. But these were fixtures. Calumet, his pony, and the eagle, were not. The eagle was Mexican; it had swung its mile-wide circles many times to reach the point above the timber clump; it was migratory and alert with the hunger lust.

  Calumet watched it with eyes that glowed bitterly and balefully. Half an hour later, when he reached the river and the pony clattered down the rocky slope, plunged its head deeply into the stream and drank with eager, silent draughts, Calumet swung himself crossways in the saddle, fumbled for a moment at his slicker, and drew out a battered tin cup. Leaning over, he filled the cup with water, tilted his head back and drank. The blur in the white sky caught his gaze and held it. His eyes mocked, his lips snarled.

  “You damned greaser sneak!” he said. “Followed me fifty miles!” A flash of race hatred glinted his eyes. �
��I wouldn’t let no damned greaser eagle get me, anyway!”

  The pony had drunk its fill. Calumet returned the tin cup to the slicker and swung back into the saddle. Refreshed, the pony took the opposite slope with a rush, emerging from the river upon a high plateau studded with fir balsam and pine. Bringing the pony to a halt, Calumet turned in the saddle and looked somberly behind him.

  For two days he had been fighting the desert, and now it lay in his rear, a mystic, dun-colored land of hot sandy waste and silence; brooding, menacing, holding out its threat of death—a vast natural basin breathing and pulsing with mystery, rimmed by remote mountains that seemed tenuous and thin behind the ever-changing misty films that spread from horizon to horizon.

  The expression of Calumet’s face was as hard and inscrutable as the desert itself; the latter’s filmy haze did not more surely shut out the mysteries behind it than did Calumet’s expression veil the emotions of his heart. He turned from the desert to face the plateau, from whose edge dropped a wide, tawny valley, luxuriant with bunch grass—a golden brown sweep that nestled between some hills, inviting, alluring. So sharp was the contrast between the desert and the valley, and so potent was its appeal to him, that the hard calm of his face threatened to soften. It was as though he had ridden out of a desolate, ages-old world where death mocked at life, into a new one in which life reigned supreme.

  There was no change in Calumet’s expression, however, though below him, spreading and dipping away into the interminable distance, slumbering in the glare of the afternoon sun, lay the land of his youth. He remembered it well and he sat for a long time looking at it, searching out familiar spots, reviving incidents with which those spots had been connected. During the days of his exile he had forgotten, but now it all came back to him; his brain was illumined and memories moved in it in orderly array—like a vast army passing in review. And he sat there on his pony, singling out the more important personages of the army—the officers, the guiding spirits of the invisible columns.