"We've got to get him," said Maurice, sharply.
"Of course we got to get him!" snapped his father. "There ain't no question about that now. Ridin' all over th' country like he is, turnin' up a fact here, an' a fact there, is somethin' that's got to be stopped. It can't go on!"
"No, it shore can't," came a sharp reply. It was Mortimer who was talking now. They called him Mort, for short, a grisly irony although an unconscious one on the part of the Meadows family, whose knowledge of French did not include even an occasional word. Mort was a name well suited to him, both in regard to the past and the present, but it was more particularly suited to him in regard to the future, because for him the future would prove to be but a brief span of time.
"We can trap him," said another voice, this one belonging to Matthew. In the naming of his sons, Black Jack had called in alliteration's artful aid, to borrow an apt phrase. There were Mortimer, Matthew, and Maurice. Mortimer had been a contribution of the mother, whose favorite reading matter might well have borne the name of Bertha M. Clay.
"Shore," said Mort, with confidence.
"I was talkin' with Slade a while back," continued Matt. "He said every man of that outfit is dangerous. He said, too, that th' sheriff is worse than any of his men, unless it might be that damn' horse-faced Nueces. An' after tellin' me all that, what happened to Slade? Why, he went for his gun, an' th' sheriff shot him. From what I heard, th' sheriff could just as well a-killed him, but didn't, for some reason known to hisself. All right: that makes it easier for us—Slade's fair itchin' to get him. All we got to do is let Slade alone, or edge him on a little, an' th' first thing we know, that ranch will be lookin' for a new owner. An' when that time comes we'll make a grand clean-up over there durin' th' excitement."
The voices became low and indistinct for a few moments, but she did hear the name "Franchère," and then the talk grew loud again.
"Wonder just how much that damn' Bentley marshal knows?" asked Mort, slowly.
"Hard to tell," answered his father. "He keeps his mouth tight shut an' don't meddle with things that don't concern him. As long as he keeps on doin' that, he'll find this climate healthy."
"But he shot Long Bill!" exclaimed Matt, angrily.
"What else could he do?" demanded the father. "Long Bill was a damn' fool, an' he shore had it comin' to him. Mebby th' marshal just saved us that job."
"That's all right, but him an' th' sheriff do quite some visitin'," objected Matt, referring to the marshal.
"An' that's all right," replied Black Jack. "They know each other, an' it's only natural for a man to hunt up somebody he knows when he goes to a strange town."
"There ain't no need to worry about that," said Maurice, reassuringly. "We're keepin' cases on th' marshal. There's a draw up on that little bench just outa town that commands th' marshal's favorite sittin' place. Not much of a range for a good rifle. A buffalo gun would make a joke of it. How soon are we goin' to get back to work, Pop?"
"Not till things are a lot better than they are right now, an' th' round-up wagons are off th' range. Not while th' sheriff is hangin' round this part of th' country, neither. An' after him there's that Nueces hombre. He's a deppety, an' he'll be th' next in line if he makes a play that we don't like. We got things goin' too well to let anybody or anythin' interfere with 'em."
"We've had some hard luck, too," growled Mort, thinking of cached cattle.
"That's somethin' you've got to expect, more or less," replied his father. "Come on, now, let's get to sleep. I'm near dead."
The voices ceased as the four men dropped off into slumber, but in the next room Alice was very wide awake. She found herself tense and holding her breath. Her temples throbbed from excitement, and her throat was tight and dry.
She had been right in her growing suspicions concerning the nocturnal activities of the Meadows men. She was certain now that they were engaged in some enterprise outside the law, some enterprise that was so desperate that it called for killing the sheriff, whoever he was. If they would kill the sheriff, then they might do the same thing to any stranger who made it a habit to ride up to the house.
She suddenly clenched her small fists, and anger surged through her; they might take from her the one thing she treasured, the wonderful thing that lay in the future of her life, like the sun behind the still dark eastern hills. Her mind played with the simile, and she slowly relaxed and smiled. She would have her sunrise if it lay within her power. She would have to warn him not to ride even through the arroyo, but if she did that, then she would be keeping him away from herself. Nevertheless she would warn him, the first chance she had.
She had listened every day for the sounds of his riding, but she had listened in vain. Then she smiled again; it had only been three days since he had been here. Three days: yes, but she never before had known how long a day could be.
There were no sounds of any kind coming from the next room, and she quietly slipped out of bed and hurriedly dressed, blushing a little from the thoughts in her mind. Then she closed the door softly behind her and stole into the kitchen to begin this day's drudgery. Oh, if the time would only come when she could leave this house, leave it forever! Almost no price would be too much to pay for that; and yet, if she did leave it, perhaps he would not know where to find her; and that would be too great a price to pay.
CHAPTER XII
BACK in Bentley, Corson had an early breakfast the morning after the shootings, and left the hotel immediately afterward, long before the night-loving population of the town was awake. He was equipped for three days in the open, and he headed straight west, crossed Crooked Creek by means of two contributing side gullies, and then turned to follow down it, along its west bank, for a dozen miles. There he left the creek to begin the great circle which would take him entirely around the suspected rough country beyond, country which lay outside the territory to be covered by the nine wagons assigned to his part of the range. It was an arid section so far as he knew, with scant feed and no water; but under the circumstances he could not afford to overlook it.
It was noon of the third day when he had completed the task and again approached Crooked Creek, miles above the point where he had left it after leaving Bentley three days before. He had seen many scattered signs of cattle, mostly signs of individual animals, but nothing which led him to believe that any worthwhile number of them had either come out of or gone into the country he had circled, at any one time or place.
He passed Iron Springs and loped along the regular wagon road leading to Bentley, passed the creek where he had visited the Baylor wagon, and kept on without pausing. When he reached the old, ruined trading post he caught sight of the dust sign of the Baylor outfit, and about mid-afternoon he reached their wagon and found that they were about through working the day's gather. A mile beyond their camp was the entrance to Lucas Arroyo, and only a few miles beyond that was Bentley.
He stopped at the wagon, unsaddled, and watched his horse roll enthusiastically. Carrying his saddle and blankets to the wagon, he put them under it, out of the way. He exchanged a few words with the cook and, following that person's nod, swung around to look at a ludicrous sight not far from the camp.
Somebody's horse must have "crossed the rope" and given its rider a bad spill or a bad few minutes. Crossing the rope was a paramount sin in a cow horse. An animal trained to work cattle should keep its feet away from a taut lariat when cow, calf, or steer was in the loop at the far end. The cure for such a mistake was nothing more than bitter experience, and this particular cow horse had been getting large doses of that; and its air of hopeless dejection was so apparent that Corson had to laugh aloud.
The rider of the animal had driven a steer up close to the camp, to save himself from walking any distance. He had tied the loose end of his rope to the pommel, thrown the loop over the steer's short horns, pulled it tight, and then, dismounting, had stridden back to the wagon, leaving the two animals fastened together.
What they had done to each
other in the ensuing gyrations was plenty, although not serious. Now they stood nose to nose in the tangle of rope, bruised, rope-burned, dejected, and about exhausted. Occasionally one or the other would hump himself furiously for a moment, and then subside to suffer dumbly and resignedly. When that rope was finally loosened, the tangle straightened out, and the steer turned loose, that chastened saddlehorse would have learned his bitter lesson so well that nothing on earth could ever successfully tempt him again to cross the rope. Not even when the loop was empty; not even a picket rope.
The cattle worked, the riders began to straggle into camp, leaving the slowly growing herd under the watchful eyes of two men. The Baylor wagon was now holding everything and would drive the entire gather back to the home range. What they rounded up now could be regarded as strays that had worked too far from the home range; and once on the home range, they would be turned loose after the strays of other brands had been cut out, and would not be molested again until the beef round-up in the fall. By this time the Baylor wagon carried no stray men, and the strays outside its own brand were practically nil. Now half the riders were going into town for a little fun after the high-pressure work of the last three weeks. They had earned it.
The straw boss swung down from his saddle and moved to the sheriff's side, nodding his welcome.
"Couple more days, an' we head for home, lock, stock, an' barrel," he said, grinning.
"You got a line on yore tallies?" bluntly asked the sheriff.
"No; not yet," answered the straw boss. "I don't know how many head our reps. brought home. When I get 'em figgered I'll let you know. You boys over east got through yet?"
"I don't know, Jerry," slowly answered the sheriff. "I haven't been over that way since I saw you. I've just come back from circlin' that Dry Arroyo country. Either there's a lot of fool coincidences goin' on down in this part of th' country, or there's th' damnedest puzzle a man ever had to struggle with."
"I ain't seen nothin' positive," said the straw boss. "Even that little bunch of cattle that used to hang around th' Broken Jug pasture could have drifted along without anybody helpin' 'em on."
"Yes, they could," admitted Corson, frowning. "Still, too many things have happened, Jerry. I don't know that I would worry much about a coincidence or two, but when I get a dozen things that don't look right, then I've got to do some lookin' around, an' thinkin'."
"Yeah. Reckon so," agreed the straw boss, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You've been all over th' range?"
"Yes."
"If anythin' big was goin' on, you'd have found signs of it," said the straw boss, slowly.
"I've just told you that I'm beginnin' to think I have found signs of it."
"I mean out-an'-out signs," explained the straw boss.
The sheriff had turned his head and was letting his gaze drift slowly along the rough slopes of the great ridge range east of him, the watershed between Crooked Creek and the Kiowa River; the vast ridge on which Packers Gap, Saddlehorn Pass, and the JM ranch were located. As he looked, his frown deepened and then suddenly disappeared: the man at his side had given assurance that the whole of the great ridge had been combed for cattle, and combed thoroughly.
The straw boss seemed to read his companion's thoughts, and nodded slowly and understandingly.
"We shore swept it clean, Corson," he said, reassuringly. "We worked every yard of it, an' we threw 'em over on th' downhill side."
"Yes, I know you did," grunted the sheriff, and then spoke of other things.
The remainder of the afternoon passed idly. Supper came and went. The straw boss had long since untangled the cow horse and the steer, turning them both loose after unsaddling the former. The horse was his own, and he now considered it cured of crossing the rope.
Twilight crept over the range, hiding its general ugliness and touching it here and there with a great magic. The ridge glowed like some vast, variegated flame in the beautiful tints of the afterglow. The cook's work was finished, and he lazily wandered over to the fire, joining his boss and guest. The riders of the first night trick had gone out to the herd, and the relieved pair rode in, picketed their horses, and sat down before the glowing embers.
Corson was silent, tormented by damnably persistent thoughts. Ever since the tragedies in Bentley, he had been hounded by them. He had suspected, earlier than that, the conditions of affairs which easily might arise. They had arisen, and with a vengeance: Black Jack Meadows and his boys were now definitely on the wrong side of the game, whatever the game might be. They were on the side he had to fight against.
He knew enough now to take the offensive against them, on one count, at least; but so far their play had only been against him, personally. It was a fact, known to him as such, that he had been hunted that night in town by Black Jack's orders. Pride and courage had insisted that he go back to the Palace after the killing of Long Bill; but he had gone there to play only a passive part, so far as initiative had been concerned. Had it been anyone but Black Jack or his boys, he would have made his accusation then and there and would have followed it up with action. As it was, he had been content to let Black Jack make the play and then ride with it to the bitter end; but Black Jack had not made it, perhaps believing that his own share in the night's development was not known to the sheriff; or that, perhaps, a better situation would later arise to do what he had failed to have done. Black Jack was her father; his sons, her brothers. Suddenly he swore out loud, swore bitterly; and then tried to grin as he saw his companions looking at him curiously.
"That Slade coyote," he said quickly, in an endeavor to cover his break. "Any of you boys seen him since?"
Negative answers were given in several ways, and the general conversation veered around and started up with a new subject to work upon. The minutes passed, and the night air was revealing a nip. One by one the men moved from the fire and became busy with blanket rolls. The fire died down and became a faint glow, a lambent dot in the middle of space.
Midnight passed. Another hour went by, and then a noisy bunch of riders came up the trail from town. They sang, they fired into the air, and they whooped. Some of the round-up pressure seemingly was still confined; but the following morning would find them dull and subdued. They rioted into camp, awakening everyone; and no one, finding excuse for them, made an objection. Most of the others would be doing the same thing on the following night. After a while the camp settled down again, the only interruptions to its silence being the shift riders going to and coming from the herd. Corson took advantage of the opportunity to rearrange his blankets, and then was instantly asleep again.
At breakfast the sheriff saw curious eyes regarding him, and knew that the Bentley tragedy was now known to the Baylor outfit. Nothing was said about it, however, until he had mounted, said his good-byes, and was riding off. Then the straw boss mounted, pushed up even with him, and rode at his side as far as the Bentley trail, saying nothing, his eyes on the already grazing herd moving from the bed ground. As they reached the trail, the straw boss raised his hand in a parting salute.
"You shoulda got Denver Joe," he said, quietly. "He's bad."
"That's one of those little coincidences that I was tellin' you about," replied the sheriff, smiling. "An' it's only Denver's good luck that I didn't get him; that an' th' dark."
"Uh-huh. I reckon mebby somethin' is wrong somewhere," slowly admitted the straw boss. "It wasn't a personal disagreement?"
"No; not to my knowledge."
"Well, I reckon you'd a-knowed about it, if it was," said the straw boss, thoughtfully.
"Reckon so," admitted the sheriff. "Those were the three that shot at me at long range, down by th' old tradin' post. That was th' beginnin', an' there wasn't nothin' personal in that."
"Looks like you been doin' too much ridin' around," suggested the straw boss, experimentally.
"I've begun to reckon that way myself," replied the sheriff, with a smile.
"By Gawd!" said the straw boss, sitting erect in the saddle. "
You need any help? I ain't got past th' trigger-pullin' age."
"Don't need any help, yet; there's nothin' to work on," said the sheriff. "I'm obliged for th' offer, though."
"Anythin' a-tall that we can do," said the straw boss. "All you got to do is holler."
Corson nodded, smiled, and turned to ride toward town, leaving the straw boss sitting a motionless horse squarely in the middle of the trail.
After a few moments the Baylor foreman shook his head gently and pressed his knees against the sides of his mount. The riders were leaving camp, following him. He turned, waved his hat in a circling gesture, and saw the men ride off to take up their positions for that day's circle. The press of work faced them and, after all, the sheriff's business was the sheriff's business. What made him sore was Slade turning his remuda loose with the shoes on them. It didn't amount to very much, but it was not workmanlike, and Slade was Slade. He was just no good. If he hung around the BLR range he would be looked after, which was a fact that nobody had any call to copper. Monkeying with a man's cattle and horses was dangerous business. That was that.
Corson rode into the sleeping town and swung down in front of the hotel. He knew that the marshal would not be stirring until considerably later in the morning, but this morning was to be an exception. The first man to come out of the dining room was, to the sheriff's surprise, the local peace officer. The marshal nodded to his brother officer, looked over the register on the desk, and grunted something. He turned around, shoved a fresh toothpick into his mouth, joined the waiting sheriff, and walked out to the street with him.
"Black Jack an' his whelps stayed over in town last night," he said. "They're asleep upstairs, right now. You want 'em?"
"No," answered Corson. "That's not th' play. Worst thing to happen, right now, would be to jail 'em. We'll give 'em more rope." A picture sprang into his mind. He could see the cow horse and the steer, hopelessly tangled. "Let 'em run, give 'em rope, an' mebby they'll get tangled up, nose to nose, with more trouble than they can handle. I'm lookin' to them for my leads."
The Round-Up Page 12
