The Round-Up
Page 22
"When did Franchère cut his string?"
"That time you saw him in th' Cheyenne. He didn't come back. Why?"
"He's over there, among th' rocks. I made a lucky shot on him."
"Yeah? Well, he won't have to bust no wild ones now," drawled the JC foreman.
"All right, boys; get started. We'll see you in Bentley," said the sheriff, and he turned toward the distant rock pile. "See you as soon as I can, Jerry."
"Take yore time, Bob," said the BLR foreman, with a smile. He watched the sheriff and the long, lanky deputy walk toward the edge of the escarpment. Then he looked down the arroyo, where Shorty and his friends were on their way to town, their prisoners ahead of them. Then he looked soberly and long at the huddled figure nearest to him, out on the edge of the basin.
"That's th' time yore hole card was a deuce, Black Jack," he said.
CHAPTER XXI
THE two friends mounted and rode down the draw, Nueces' face wearing a look of extreme satisfaction. Various little puzzles had been cleared up, puzzles which had bothered him, and while he had had little to do in their solving, he had done his own job with neatness and dispatch. His friend ought to be very well pleased with his own part; but something seemed to be wrong.
"I knowed that just as soon as they begun to figger that you was loco, you'd clear it up," he said, glancing sidewise at his companion.
"Yeah," grunted Corson, moodily, his eyes fixed steadily on the ground ahead.
"How'd they keep them cattle up there, with Jerry's crew sweepin' th' ridge?" asked the deputy.
Corson told him, as briefly as possible.
"Huh!" mused Nueces, letting the play run through his mind. "An' so Franchère was in with 'em all th' time, huh? Only wish I'd knowed that before!"
The wagon road moved steadily toward them, and the sheriff urged the bay into a lope, his companion's sorrel keeping head to head with it.
"I'm turnin' in my badge an' resignin'," said Corson, abruptly, as the Shell Canyon road went past.
"Huh?" exclaimed Nueces, incredulously, doubting his ears.
"I'm quittin'. To hell with th' job!"
"Great land of cows!" marveled Nueces, turning sideways in his saddle. "Quittin'!"
"Yes."
"But you just won th' game, Hands down!" protested the deputy.
"Yeah; an' lost a damn' sight more," growled his friend and boss.
"Yeah?" inquired Nueces, turning this surprising bit of information over in his active mind. Their friendship, oak-ribbed and copper-riveted, gave him certain rights. "How's that?"
"There's a Meadows girl," growled the sheriff. "I've just killed off her menfolks."
Nueces reflectively chewed on this chunk of information and after a few moments made adequate reply.
"I'll be eternally —— —— !"
The road to the Gap went swiftly past, neither of them giving it more than a glance, but the sheriff bitterly thought that it made no difference now how many shoes were worn by the bay. The Jackson Canyon road forked to the right, and was past. A mile and a half farther on they took the left-hand road leading up to Saddlehorn Pass. The trail up from David Canyon, leading to the same point, was steadily bearing toward them. As the two routes drew close together Nueces saw a horseman riding rapidly along the trail, heading in their direction. His big hand slid out toward the stock of the scabbarded rifle at his leg.
"Wonder who that is?" he suddenly asked, his eyes on the stranger.
"Huh?" demanded Corson, stirring out of his bitter reverie. He looked toward the trail, and grunted. "Marshal of Bentley. A friend."
"Oh," grunted Nueces, and drew his hand back to rest on the pommel.
The tired, stiff, and sleepy marshal, returning from the Turkey Track, urged his tired mount into a little swifter gait and reached the intersection of trail and road as the other two drew up. His old but keen eyes were on the sheriff, reading dejection, bitterness, rebellion.
"Lick you?" he asked, craftily.
Corson stiffened indignantly.
"Like hell!" he snipped. "Got 'em all. Th' two that are alive will be waitin' for you to open up th' jail."
"I ain't done so much ridin' in years," growled the marshal, trying to hide his satisfaction over the successful conclusion of several enterprises: "but I reckon I'll live long enough to open up th' jail. Who was they?"
Corson told him, briefly, sullenly.
"Huh! Then they are all gone," said the marshal, almost smacking his lips.
"All but Mort Meadows," grunted the sheriff. "Somebody else can get him. I'm turnin' in my badge by mail."
"Reckon that's all you can do," agreed the marshal, winking slyly at Nueces. "Nobody's got to get Mort. I got him, with his stepsister watchin' me do it. Th' skunk woulda killed her th' minute she stepped outa my door. He tried for me, instead, with a defective cartridge, an' I blowed him to hell an' gone before he could try ag'in. Now she ain't got none of them coyotes to break her heart no more."
Corson was staring at the old man, the expression on his face undergoing bewildering changes. Had he heard aright: killed Mort Meadows, with his stepsister looking on!
"This is Sat'dy. There won't be no mails leavin' Carson till Monday mornin'," said the marshal, chuckling. "You'll have plenty of time to make up yore mind about turnin' in that badge. You comin' along with us, or are you figgerin' to set here all day?"
"Neither!" snapped Corson, wheeling the bay. "See you both in town before dark!"
"Hey! Not th' Gap!" shouted the marshal, in quick alarm. "She ain't there no more!"
Corson checked the bay and whirled again.
"What you say?" he asked, incredulously.
"She's cleared out. Cut plumb loose from th' JM an' everythin' belongin' to it. She rode down to town to tell me all about them coyotes, an' was worried near sick for fear they'd kill you."
"Where is she then—Bentley?"
"Bentley was too close to home," shouted the marshal. "She could smell th' stink of it from there."
" —— —— you!" yelled the sheriff, impolitely.
"What have you done with her?"
"Took her where you said for her to go," shouted the marshal, nudging Nueces in the ribs. In a low voice he said to his bewildered companion: "Lookit him r'ar an' snort!"
"Where I said to go?" yelled Corson. "Where'n hell was that?"
"Turkey Track—she was hell-bent to go there, long ride or no long ride, because you once told her—"
"Great Gawd!" yelled the sheriff. "You let that woman ride sixty miles!"
"Let her!" shouted the marshal, indignantly. "She damn' near drug me all th' way! We changed hosses at th' Bar W an' yore own ranch. I'm near dead, right now, but she didn't look no tireder than if she'd just come from a dance."
The only reply to these remarks was a partial wheeling of the bay and a string of dust shooting along the David Canyon trail like a low-aimed rocket.
"There!" said the marshal, with smiling satisfaction. "We shore got rid of him. Now let's ride on, slow an' peaceful. You must be that Nueces feller. I've heard a lot about you: how come yo're still alive?"
The Bar W foreman loafed to the door of the bunkhouse, wondering what was up. The sound of the hoofs bespoke the urgency of a horse race, but there was only one horse in sight, and it was coming down the wagon road as fast as its fanning legs could carry it. The horse slid to a stop with the sure facility of a trained cutting-out animal, and foam slipped down its heaving sides to drop to earth.
"Want a fresh horse," said the sheriff, crisply, as he reached toward the cinch buckle.
"Shore," replied the foreman. "Somethin' up?"
"Yes. Rustlin' is. It's all over, down in this part of the country. Th' gang's cleaned up."
"Good! Find any herd?" asked the foreman, somewhat derisively.
"We shore did. Take my pick?"
"Yeah; but that black's th' best in th' corral," replied the foreman. Then he scratched his head and grinned faintly. "Hope folks don't
get th' idear that this ranch is a damn' relay station. Anybody else comin' along that wants to swap for a fresh hoss?"
"No," answered Corson over his shoulder, but without checking his stride.
In a moment he had the black cut out and outside the bars. Another moment saw the hackamore in place and the saddle on. His fingers were moving with the swiftness and sureness of instinctive motions. He swung up, wheeled the animal, and raised his hand.
"So-long, an' much obliged. I'll send one of th' boys to swap back."
"So-long," grunted the foreman. "You will if you don't kill th' black!"
At the JC bunkhouse the cook's choppy, bow-legged stride took him to the door to see what the trouble was. His hopes flared suddenly: that sounded like business. He patted the gun on his thigh and poked his head out of the door. Yes: it was Corson, riding as if the devil were after him. Whose black was that, and what had happened to the bay?
"Roan in th' corral?" shouted the sheriff as he slid to a stop near the corral gate.
"Naw; but that chestnut is damn' near as good," answered the cook. "What's up? Where you goin'?"
"Where's th' roan?" demanded Corson, impatiently, slipping off saddle and hackamore.
The cook shifted uneasily and tried his hand at evasion. He had felt that he should not lend that animal, felt it in his bones.
" 'Tain't here," he said. "Gimme that rope, an' I'll get you th' chestnut."
"Where's th' roan?" insistently demanded his boss, vaulting the corral gate, the rope in his hands.
"Loaned it to a lady. She was with th' marshal of Bentley. He said it was all right. Said you told him to swap here. Come bustin' in here after I was asleep, an' wouldn't take no other hoss. Said that hoss had made so much trouble that it oughta work it out. What th' hell he was talkin' about, I didn't know: but it was all right, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Get outa th' way!"
The cook sighed with relief and barely escaped the quick leap of the chestnut.
"Great Gawd!" he said, his mouth sagging open in wonderment. His boss didn't care whom he ran over.
Corson's hands were swiftly working with straps and buckles, and almost before the wondering cook knew it, his boss was pointing a little cloud of dust up the trail leading to Horsethief Pass.
Placidly grazing cattle, with the indignities of the round-up fresh in their minds, raised their heads and uneasily watched the chestnut comet streaking along the trail. Their fears were groundless, for the animal rocked steadily ahead.
The cook had been right, thought Corson: the chestnut was a mighty good horse, nearly as good as the roan. Mile after mile slid behind. The Alkali Holes were ahead, to the side, and then in the rear. At the fork of the road Corson swung to the left without drawing rein, and flashed down into the little hollows and up over the little hills on the last stretch of the run. He swung sharply around the last shoulder and raced along the creek which ran past the Turkey Track ranch buildings. Then the buildings themselves popped into sight, and he was shooting down the last long slope straight for the ranch-house door.
Owen French was just stepping out of the house, his wife telling him to be sure to fasten the chicken-house door or the coyotes would get every last one of them. Then they both looked up at the sound of drumming hoofbeats.
"Land sakes," she said, with a smile. "Ain't that th' sheriff?"
"Reckon so," grunted French. "He must want to kill that hoss!"
"Huh!" said his wife. "There was a time when you woulda killed a hoss! Let's clear out: them young folks won't want us to clutter up th' house. Hurry, Owen: you are so slow!"
Corson drew the chestnut to a swift stop, leaped to the ground, and then lost all urge for speed. He stepped slowly into the house and found no one in sight. There came a sound from the other room, and he moved toward the door.
She stood near a window, gravely, wistfully studying him. She quickly raised a hand, and he stopped, his hungry eyes full of fear, a fear that cut her like a knife.
"I knew you'd come, of course," she said, her voice low and strained. "But you should not have come, dear. It's very hard to have to pay for something that I've never done. Very hard. I just don't know what—I just don't know."
"Mebby it's still harder to pay for somethin' you have done," he answered, bitterly, and held out his hands, palms up. "To have to go to th' woman you love with th' blood of her—"
"Stop, Bob! You must not say that! I won't let you! It was your duty: you could do nothing else."
"But they're not clean, Alice, dear; not clean enough for you to touch."
"They never were and they never will be unclean to me!" she replied, swiftly. "It is I who am—who am—"
She was unprepared for it, but no amount of warning would have done any good. There was no use to struggle in those iron arms, so she did not struggle. And then, slowly her hands crept up his vest, passed his shoulders, and came to rest on his cheeks, his lean, tanned face tightly gripped between them. His head bent down.
Through the open window came the voice of Owen French's wife, although they two did not hear it.
"If you'd put hinges on th' gates of this ranch, instead of that eternal balin' wire…"
But the round-up was over, and this story with it.
THE END
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI