"Who was it you brought in, just now?" asked the latter, mildly curious.
"Jack Slade," answered the sheriff.
"Huh!" grunted the marshal. "What did he up an' do?"
"He tried to dry-gulch me," replied the sheriff. "Shot four of my cows, an' left a plain trail. It was a little too plain for me to get careless." He took off his big hat and pointed to the holes in both sides of the crown. "But at that, he near got me. He had first shot an' missed. I tricked him, an' he tried again; but this time I beat him on th' trigger. I threw him on his horse an' brought him down Saddlehorn Pass road."
The crowd was murmuring, and the marshal nodded encouragingly.
"That makes three times," continued the sheriff, "in th' last couple weeks that somebody's tried to dry-gulch me. Th' first an' second times it was Squinty, Denver Joe, an' Long Bill. After a while folks will either take more pains in their shootin' or let me alone. They want to pay more attention to windage."
"Fill 'em ag'in," said the marshal, nodding to the open-mouthed man behind the counter. Then he turned to face his companion.
"I heard Slade was honin' to get square for that shoulder you gave him," he said. "You figger he was throwin' a wide loop?"
"Looked that way," answered the sheriff, frankly. "There's a little rustlin' goin' on, of course. It's scattered here an' there, over a big section of th' range. There most generally is more or less cattle-stealin' on a range as big as this. Some of them fellers knowed that I was doin' a lot of ridin'. I must have got close to 'em, some time. Slade was careless, an' I practically accused him of stealin' cattle. That was at th' Baylor wagon. He went for his gun an' I shot him through th' shoulder. There wasn't no need of shootin' him anywhere else. Then he itched to get square, an' fixed up a trap for me. It was his hard luck that it didn't work out right."
"Y-e-p; it was," said the marshal, slowly.
"Have one on me," said the bartender, pushing out the bottle. He let his placid gaze rest on the marshal, but there were calculating glints in his eyes.
"How's Denver Joe gettin' along?" This was a very vital question to some people. Denver Joe might turn state's evidence and tell what he knew. His erstwhile companions were not enthusiastic for his recovery.
"All right, I reckon," replied the marshal. "He's healin' up in good shape; but it ain't that gunshot wound that's botherin' Denver. He's lookin' twenty years right plumb in th' face." He put down the glass and drew the back of a hand across his lips. "He's worryin', Denver is; an' I don't blame him for it."
"Yeah," said the bartender, thoughtfully. "He oughta be!"
"Well," said the sheriff, turning from the bar, "th' round-up's over, an' th' whole range was never swept so clean before. It was swept so clean that we found every cached head, an' every man-made weaner. No place was overlooked." He dug out tobacco and papers and began to roll a cigarette. "After today's shootin' match, I reckon that rustlin' will be outa style in this part of th' country for quite a spell. I'll have time to take a little interest in my own affairs, an' I'm shore goin' home to help th' boys take th' shoes off th' cavvy. We've got a lot of broncs to break, an' if there's one thing I like, it's makin' broomtails into shavetails."
He looked casually around the room, his gaze taking in the marshal, the bartender, and the crowd, and his smile and nod were meant for all of them.
"See you all in th' fall, mebby," he said, and the swinging doors swung gently and squeakily behind him.
The marshal, nodding to the crowd, strode after his friend and, catching up with him, fell into step. They walked slowly back to where the JC horse stood before the marshal's office.
"I shore do like that roan hoss," said the latter enviously as his companion picked up the reins and placed one hand on the saddlehorn. "I see you got him shod all round."
"Yes," replied Corson, swinging up from the ground. "He's my pet ridin' horse. I don't work cattle with him. Well, I'll see you again, an' long before fall. Adiós."
"Wait a minute," said the marshal hastily, as he looked up the dusty street. "Wait a minute! Here comes th' pe-rade." The term was so apt that it made him chuckle.
Corson turned his head and saw Black Jack Meadows riding up the street toward the Palace, and behind him rode his three sons, shoulder to shoulder. They would have made a hit in opera bouffe without the addition of a word or action. They dismounted, fastened their horses to the tie rail, and disappeared into the building.
"You named it then," admitted the sheriff, with a wide grin. "Damn' if they ain't funny. Huh! Come to think of it, I reckon I'll wait a few minutes an' see what Black Jack does after he learns that I've killed Slade. Mebby th' pe-rade will head this way."
"No such luck," growled the marshal, unconsciously rubbing the walnut at his thigh. "Th' hull four of 'em might go ag'in me or you alone; but not th' two of us. Dry-gulchin' is more in their line." His eyes suddenly narrowed from speculation. "You say you got Slade on Saddlehorn Pass road?"
"That's th' way I said I come into town," answered the sheriff, with a grin.
"Well, you don't have to ride back that way," grunted the marshal, glancing meaningly at the Palace. "But it is th' shortest way home." He scratched his head gently and smiled.
The pleased expression on the sheriff's face was wiped off by a frown, and he muttered something under his breath.
"Saddlehorn Pass is shore good enough for me," he growled, sullenly. "If I take it, go down through Jackson Canyon to th' Kiowa, an' then strike across th' ridge, I can get back to th' ranch before dark. An' that's where I'm goin'."
"Yeah?" drawled the marshal, squinting upward. "What ranch?"
"Th' JC!" snapped Corson, the frown growing.
"Well, I shore figgered it begun with a J," drawled the marshal. He studied the scowling countenance above him. "There ain't no chance of bein' dry-gulched now." He turned his head and looked significantly at the Palace.
Corson's reply was to gather up the slack in the reins, press his knees against the saddle, wheel, and ride off, at right angles to the trail which led to Carson. He was starting east toward the Saddlehorn Pass road. He turned, looked back, raised a hand in a parting gesture, and then, facing about again, sent the horse into a lope. He cut the road at a point below where he had left it an hour or so before, and let the horse drop into a walk up the long, gentle slope. As he rode he fidgeted, becoming steadily more restless and ill-at-ease.
To follow the road over the divide and then go down through Jackson Canyon, he would have to turn and ride south a mile or more at the other end of the canyon: if he turned south now and went by way of the Gap it would not add more than two miles to his total riding. Two miles. A mere flea bite to a man on a good horse; but he hated to give in after he had so definitely settled the matter. She had made her choice. Oh, well: he would give her one more chance, not admitting to himself that it was he who was really receiving the benefit of the chance.
He turned to the right, left the road, followed along a bench, and not long thereafter he was on the Packers Gap trail, riding hand in hand with hope. The mouth of the draw went slowly past, but the door did not open. He could just see the top of it from the Gap trail, but by standing up in the stirrups he could see a little more. No: he had been right the first time—the door was closed.
All right! She would wait a long time before he rode this way again, a long, long time. He was through: definitely, determinedly through. Women could all go to hell, along with the whole Meadows family; and he would begin to send the latter there at the first opportunity. He thought of the marshal's pe-rade, and thrilled to a quick anger: give him but half a chance and he would turn that pe-rade into a funeral procession!
Because of mental turmoil he forgot his intention to ford the Kiowa and strike straight across the ridge. The horse naturally enough followed the trail, and almost before he was aware of it Corson found himself nearing the trail fork at the Bar W. He had ridden along one side of the triangle, and in order to get to his own ranch he would have to f
ollow the other, and longer, side. Well, as long as he was here, he would drop in at the Bar W bunkhouse and speak with the foreman. That person, hearing hoofbeats, was standing in the door as the sheriff rode up.
"Howd'y, Corson."
"Howd'y," replied the horseman. "Reckoned I'd drop in for a couple of minutes. How are things?"
"Quite some better than we thought," answered the foreman. "When our reps. got home from all th' wagons, with their bunches of strays, our tally was a whole lot better. Wouldn't be surprised if you found yourn th' same."
"Yo're thinkin' of calves," said the sheriff.
"Yeah: calves. As I said, I'm allus ready to give an' take a little on tally figures. These are some short of what I expected; but they seem to be close enough."
"Too bad we got to wait till fall to get th' figgers on th' older cattle," growled the sheriff. "What I'm mostly interested in is yearlin' steers, yearlin's an' over."
"Yeah," agreed the foreman. "I don't reckon there's much deviltry goin' on," he added.
"No?" inquired the sheriff, visualizing the double handful of gold coins lying before Black Jack Meadows on the stud-horse table.
"Well, there might be a little, here an' there, mebby," conceded the foreman.
"Shore hope yo're right," grunted the sheriff, shortly. He waved his hand, turned the horse, and headed up Coppermine Canyon toward Willow Springs and the JC.
If he only could put his finger on it! It was there, and he knew it; and he knew that it was not just "here and there," or scattered, disconnected effort. The conviction was so strong in him that it almost struck into his bones. He was certain that there was systematic rustling going on, and on a large scale. He was as certain of it as he was of his own name.
It had not been necessary to drive off the calves, once they had been weaned, before the Association was formed. They could be left on their own ranges to grow up into unmarked yearlings. They could be left unmarked on a gamble that many of them would be overlooked in the heretofore more or less careless round-ups. Sleepering was an art as old as cattle-stealing, being, as it was, a part of it. When opportunity offered they could be branded in other marks, a few at a time; and, a few at a time, be drifted off to that other range.
The last phrase made him frown. There was the absurdity. What other range was there? Every mile of country had been thoroughly combed. Up to now, up to this last round-up, rustlers generally could depend upon finding a sufficient number of mavericks—unmarked yearlings, or over—to meet their needs, providing that their needs were modest; but from now on, knowing the thoroughness of the clean-up, they would be forced to wean calves away from their marked mothers, and either to brand them in their own marks, or to sequester them, if their operations were to continue. But where could they sequester them? Damn it all, it made his head ache! Here was another closed door, only this one had been slammed in his face. No matter where he turned, he found a closed door. And this unfortunate phrase, returning to his mind, started him all over again in a trend of thought which did him no good.
He rode into town and stopped before the Cheyenne.
Steve's welcoming smile greeted him, and he replied to it with a frown. Several men were at the bar, among them Franchère, the JC stray man who had been with the Chain wagon. Franchère looked a little sullen as his employer's gaze picked him out, but he managed a grin and nodded.
"Yore drag from th' Chain amount to anythin'?" demanded the sheriff.
"Yeah," answered the puncher, the grin becoming real, and somewhat derisive. "Fifty-odd calves, with their ma's."
"Any of th' other reps. come in?" persisted the sheriff, his frown growing.
"Yeah," answered Franchère, with deliberate slowness. "Johnny came in from th' Turkey Track." He stopped, purposefully withholding the rest of the information.
"Well?" growled Corson, impatiently. "How many calves did he bring with him?"
"Thirty-odd."
Could the Bar W foreman be right, after all? No; he'd be damned if he could! Calf facts to the contrary notwithstanding, there were rustling operations going on. Well, he might as well learn the rest of the calf story.
"Jimmy home from th' Baylor ranch?" he asked.
"Yeah, an' got th' shoes pulled from his remuda."
Corson's face grew deeper in color, and he spread his feet and glared at the exasperating puncher through level, unwavering eyes; and quickly, without more verbal prompting, Franchère told the rest of it, "He brought twenty head—calves, of course." Corson swiftly added the figures. They cut down the numbers given by Nueces and made a newly estimated calf loss of only sixty head. Sixty calves less than the expected number, a number obtained by rule-of-thumb figuring. Sixty calves! On a ranch as large as the JC it was ridiculous to find positive indications of thieving in so small a margin. They had figured that about eighty-four per cent of the mature cows would calve; all right, suppose that only eighty-three per cent had been fruitful? Eighty-four was a little high, anyhow. That estimated sixty difference would be accounted for right there. He swore, swung on his heel, and strode from the room, forgetting all about the drink he had ridden in to obtain.
Another door had slammed shut against him. He had Franchère's word for that. Franchère: huh! He was acting queer. Shucks, the puncher was all right; he was just enjoying a little joke at the expense of his boss. And then he remembered the puncher's actions down at the Chain wagon; the belated grin, the furtive glances. He had not acted natural. The picture came back to his mind. He was not so certain, now, about Franchère. He would keep an eye on the man. Damned if he was going to be made a monkey of by every man on the range! Then he grinned ruefully and felt a little ashamed of himself: if this kept up, he would have the disposition of a cactus. Huh! Huh, a cactus didn't get into a lather over a woman. A cactus had its points. At that unintentional pun he had to chuckle; for once he was right, for a cactus had little else but points, and damned mean ones, too.
The lights gleamed pleasantly in the bunkhouse, and a deal of noise came therefrom. Shorty's harmonica and the cook's accordion were going full tilt, vying with each other in the matter of volume. A figure passed before the window. It looked like Shorty, walking while he played. Shorty never could sit still when he played the damned thing. Off on a knoll a coyote howled, being inspired to vocal effort by the music. Shorty passed the window again, keeping step with the music.
The noise, trebly loud in a confined space, effectively drowned the sounds of the roan's hoofs, and Corson pulled up just outside the door, swung from the saddle, and took a step forward. He could see into the strongly lighted room without being seen in turn. The accordion was working like an elastic, and Shorty's cupped hands partly concealed an ecstatic countenance with bulging cheeks. Music! Who the hell wanted to listen to any music? Corson could picture the outfit at the wagon, getting ready to roll up in blankets. He could see the glowing ashes of the fire, hear the night horses moving about at the end of their picket ropes, industriously searching and cropping. He could see the lanky straw boss, feel his presence. To hell with the bunkhouse! It was no place for him. He swung back into the saddle and rode off without his visit being suspected by the two men inside.
The wagon was where he had expected to find it. The dying embers of the little, economical fire winked at him, and an occasional breeze fanned them to glowing life, revealing the blanketed cocoons lying about it on the ground. As he drew near, one cocoon, a long one, stirred and the sleeper sat up. None of the others had responsibility and, therefore, slept on like tired children. The alert straw boss peered into the sheltering darkness of the night.
"Who th' hell told you to cut out for town?" he demanded in a low but angry voice.
" 'Lo, Nueces," came the soft answer as the horseman stopped at the wagon.
"Huh! 'Lo, Bob," grunted the straw boss. "I guessed wrong. Anythin' th' matter?"
"Yeah! Too damn' much music in th' bunkhouse, an' I kept on ridin'." The saddle came off and was placed under the wagon. In a momen
t the sheriff had picketed the roan and was sitting down at the foreman's side.
"You been in town?" asked the straw boss.
"Yeah," answered Corson. "Dropped in to get a drink, an' then forgot all about it."
"Gawd, man!" marveled the straw boss. "Yo're shore slippin'! Don't you tell that to Shorty, or he'll worry hisself sick about you. Forgettin' to take a drink shore would be a terrible sign, to his way of thinkin'. See anybody you knew?"
"Shore," grunted Corson, finding his companion's presence to be like a healing ointment. The old horse-faced coyote was a man from the soles of his boots to the top of his big hat. Man, all man: about six feet six of it. No higher praise can be bestowed, and we are not forgetting medals of honor.
"You see Franchère?" asked the foreman of the JC. The trace of anger had returned to his voice.
"Yeah," answered Corson, expectantly.
"Drunk or sober?"
"Sober, when I left. Why?"
"Did he have anythin' to say about why he sneaked off to town when he knowed that he had th' first night shift with th' herd?" demanded the straw boss, the anger flicking up a little.
"No," answered the sheriff, and the dying fire was so low that it did not reveal his sudden smile of relief; that had been the reason for the puncher's peculiar attitude.
"No?" gently inquired Nueces, echoing the negative. He frowned. "Huh! When we all get back to th' ranch, an' get th' shoes off th' cavvy, we start right in bustin' broncs. Franchère will take his cut last; an' what th' rest of th' boys will leave for him to bust in won't be good news for anybody. I'll take up th' slack on him, all right; an' if he don't like it, me an' him shore will have plenty of words. Shore as hell, we will."
Corson was the owner and the boss of the JC ranch, but this matter and all matters of this kind were outside of his jurisdiction. What the foreman felt called upon to say to the members of the outfit was that person's own, peculiar business. Memory flashed him that little picture again, the picture of Franchère at the Chain wagon, and he was about to mention it, but thought twice, and dismissed the puncher from his mind.
The Round-Up Page 15
