Produced by Kathryn Lybarger, Gene Smethers and the OnlineDistributed Processing Team
[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: In many older texts, the character combination "oe"was tied together with a ligature. Such instances are represented inthis ASCII text by enclosing them in brackets. Hence in wordssuch as Oedipus, for example, when the 'O' and the 'e' are connected with aligature, they will be shown as [Oe]dipus. In addition, the text containsa ranch brand consisting of the characters J and H connected (no spacebetween). This brand is shown in the text as [JH].]
He had been shot through the body and was dead. Hisrifle lay across a rock trained carefully on the trail.]
THE KILLER
BY
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
AUTHOR OFTHE BLAZED TRAIL,THE RIVERMAN,ARIZONA NIGHTS, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1919, 1920, BYDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANYALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OFTRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES,INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATESATTHE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y.
COPYRIGHT 1919, 1920, BY THE RED BOOK CORPORATION
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE KILLER 3
THE ROAD AGENT 135
THE TIDE 157
CLIMBING FOR GOATS 189
MOISTURE, A TRACE 211
THE RANCH 229
THE KILLER
CHAPTER I
I want to state right at the start that I am writing this story twentyyears after it happened solely because my wife and Senor Buck Johnsoninsist on it. Myself, I don't think it a good yarn. It hasn't any lovestory in it; and there isn't any plot. Things just happened, one thingafter the other. There ought to be a yarn in it somehow, and I supposeif a fellow wanted to lie a little he could make a tail-twister out ofit. Anyway, here goes; and if you don't like it, you know you can quitat any stage of the game.
It happened when I was a kid and didn't know any better than to do suchthings. They dared me to go up to Hooper's ranch and stay all night; andas I had no information on either the ranch or its owner, I saddled upand went. It was only twelve miles from our Box Springs ranch--a niceeasy ride. I should explain that heretofore I had ridden the Gila end ofour range, which is so far away that only vague rumours of Hooper hadever reached me at all. He was reputed a tough old devil with horridhabits; but that meant little to me. The tougher and horrider they came,the better they suited me--so I thought. Just to make everythingentirely clear I will add that this was in the year of 1897 and the SodaSprings valley in Arizona.
By these two facts you old timers will gather the setting of my tale.Indian days over; "nester" days with frame houses and vegetable patchesnot yet here. Still a few guns packed for business purposes; Mexicanborder handy; no railroad in to Tombstone yet; cattle rustlers lingeringin the Galiuros; train hold-ups and homicide yet prevalent but frownedupon; favourite tipple whiskey toddy with sugar; but the old fortifiedranches all gone; longhorns crowded out by shorthorn blaze-headHerefords or near-Herefords; some indignation against Alfred HenryLewis's _Wolfville_ as a base libel; and, also but, no gasoline wagonsor pumps, no white collars, no tourists pervading the desert, and theInjins still wearing blankets and overalls at their reservations insteadof bead work on the railway platforms when the Overland goes through. Inother words, we were wild and wooly, but sincerely didn't know it.
While I was saddling up to go take my dare, old Jed Parker came andleaned himself up against the snubbing post of the corral. He watched mefor a while, and I kept quiet, knowing well enough that he had somethingto say.
"Know Hooper?" he asked.
"I've seen him driving by," said I.
I had: a little humped, insignificant figure with close-cropped whitehair beneath a huge hat. He drove all hunched up. His buckboard was arattletrap, old, insulting challenge to every little stone in the road;but there was nothing the matter with the horses or their harness. Wenever held much with grooming in Arizona, but these beasts shone likebronze. Good sizeable horses, clean built--well, I better not getstarted talking horse! They're the reason I had never really sized upthe old man the few times I'd passed him.
"Well, he's a tough bird," said Jed.
"Looks like a harmless old cuss--but mean," says I.
"About this trip," said Jed, after I'd saddled and coiled myrope--"don't, and say you did."
I didn't answer this, but led my horse to the gate.
"Well, don't say as how I didn't tell you all about it," said Jed, goingback to the bunk house.
Miserable old coot! I suppose he thought he _had_ told me all about it!Jed was always too loquacious!
But I hadn't racked along more than two miles before a man cantered upwho was perfectly able to express himself. He was one of our outfit andwas known as Windy Bill. Nuff said!
"Hear you're goin' up to stay the night at Hooper's," said he. "KnowHooper?"
"No, I don't," said I, "are you another of these Sunbirds with gladnews?"
"Know about Hooper's boomerang?"
"Boomerang!" I replied, "what's that?"
"That's what they call it. You know how of course we all let eachother's strays water at our troughs in this country, and send 'em backto their own range at round up."
"Brother, you interest me," said I, "and would you mind informing mefurther how you tell the dear little cows apart?"
"Well, old Hooper don't, that's all," went on Windy, without paying meany attention. "He built him a chute leading to the water corrals, andhalf way down the chute he built a gate that would swing across it andopen a hole into a dry corral. And he had a high platform with a handlethat ran the gate. When any cattle but those of his own brands camealong, he had a man swing the gate and they landed up into the drycorral. By and by he let them out on the range again."
"Without water?"
"Sure! And of course back they came into the chute. And so on. Till theydied, or we came along and drove them back home."
"Windy," said I, "you're stuffing me full of tacks."
"I've seen little calves lyin' in heaps against the fence like drifts oftumbleweed," said Windy, soberly; and then added, without apparentpassion, "The old----!"
Looking at Windy's face, I knew these words for truth.
"He's a bad _hombre_," resumed Windy Bill after a moment. "He never doesno actual killing himself, but he's got a bad lot of oilers[A] there,especially an old one named Andreas and another one called Ramon, andall he has to do is to lift one eye at a man he don't like and that manis as good as dead--one time or another."
This was going it pretty strong, and I grinned at Windy Bill.
"All right," said Windy, "I'm just telling you."
"Well, what's the matter with you fellows down here?" I challenged. "Howis it he's lasted so long? Why hasn't someone shot him? Are you allafraid of him or his Mexicans?"
"No, it ain't that, exactly. I don't know. He drives by all alone, andhe don't pack no gun ever, and he's sort of runty--and--I do'no _why_ heain't been shot, but he ain't. And if I was you, I'd stick home."
Windy amused but did not greatly persuade me. By this time I was fairlyconversant with the cowboy's sense of humour. Nothing would have tickledthem more than to bluff me out of a harmless excursion by means ofscareful tales. Shortly Windy Bill turned off to examine a distant bunchof cattle; and so I rode on alone.
It was coming on toward evening. Against the eastern mountains werefloating tinted mists; and the canons were a deep purple. The cattlewere moving slowly so that here and there a nimbus of dust caught andreflected the late sunlight into gamboge yellows and mauves. The magictime was near when the fierce, implacable day-g
enius of the desert wouldfall asleep and the soft, gentle, beautiful star-eyed night-genius ofthe desert would arise and move softly. My pony racked along in thedesert. The mass that represented Hooper's ranch drew imperceptiblynearer. I made out the green of trees and the white of walls andbuilding.
The Killer Page 1
