THE TALL STRANGER
"You'll have to manage it yoreself." Lanpher, the manager of the 88
ranch, was speaking, and there was finality in his tone.
"You mean you don't wanna appear in the deal a-tall," sneered his
companion.
Racey Dawson, who had been kneeling on the ground engaged in bandaging
a cut from a kick on the near foreleg of the Dale pony when the two
men led their horses into the corral, craned his neck past the pony's
chest and glanced at Lanpher's tall companion. For the latter's words
provoked curiosity. What species of deal was toward? Having ridden for
Lanpher in the days preceding his employment by the Cross-in-a-box
and consequently provided with many opportunities for studying the
gentleman at arm's-length, Racey naturally assumed that the deal was a
shady one. Personally, he believed Lanpher capable of anything.
Which of course was unjust to the manager. His courage was not quite
sufficient to hold him abreast of the masters in wickedness. But he
was mean and cruel in a slimy way, and if left alone was prone to make
life miserable for someone. Invariably the someone was incapable of
proper defense. From Farewell to Marysville, throughout the length
and breadth of the great Lazy River country, Lanpher was known
unfavourably and disliked accordingly.
To his companion's sneering remark Lanpher made no intelligible reply.
He merely grunted as he reached for the gate to pull it shut. His
companion half turned (his back had from the first been toward
Racey Dawson), and Racey perceived the cold and Roman profile of a
long-jawed head. Then the man turned full in his direction and behold,
the hard features vanished, and the man displayed a good-looking
countenance of singular charm. The chin was a thought too wide and
heavy, a trait it shared in common with the mouth, but otherwise the
stranger's full face would have found favour in the eyes of almost any
woman, however critical.
Racey Dawson, at first minded to reveal his presence in the corral,
thought better of it almost immediately. While not by habit an
eavesdropper he felt no shame in fortuitously overhearing anything
Lanpher or the stranger might be moved to say. Lanpher merited no
consideration under any circumstances, and the stranger, in appearance
a similar breed of dog as far as morals went, certainly deserved no
better treatment. So Racey remained quietly where he was, and was glad
that besides the pony to whom he was ministering there were several
others between him and the men at the gate.
"Why don't you wanna appear in this business?" persisted the stranger,
pivoting on one heel in order to keep face to face with Lanpher.
"I gotta live here," was the Lanpher reply.
"Well, ain't I gotta live here, too, and I don't see anything round
here to worry me. S'pose old Chin Whisker does go on the prod. What
can he do?"
"'Tsall right," mumbled Lanpher, shutting the gate and shoving home
the bar. "You don't know this country as well as I do. I got trouble
enough running the 88 without borrowing any more."
"Now I told you I was gonna get his li'l ranch peaceable if I could. I
got it all planned out. I don't do anything rough unless I gotto. But
I'm gonna get old Chin Whisker out o' there, and you can stick a pin
in that."
"'Tsall right. 'Tsall right. You wanna remember ol' Chin Whisker ain't
the only hoss yo're trying to ride. If you think that other outfit
is gonna watch you pick daisies in their front yard without doing
anything, you got another guess. But I'll do what I said--and no
more."
"I s'pose you think that by sticking away off yonder where the grass
is long nobody will suspicion you. If you do, yo're crazy. Folks ain't
so cross-brained as all that."
"Not so dam loud!" Lanpher cautioned, excitedly.
"Say, whatsa matter with you?" demanded the stranger, leaning back
against the gate and spreading his long arms along the top bar. "Which
yo're the most nervous gent I ever did see. The hotel ain't close
enough for anybody to hear a word, and there's only hosses in the
corral. Get a-hold of yoreself. Don't be so skittish."
"I ain't skittish. I'm sensible. I know--" Lanpher broke off abruptly.
"What do you know?"
"What yo're due to find out."
"Now lookit here, Mr. Lanpher," said the stranger in a low, cold tone,
"you said those last words a leetle too gayful to suit me. If yo're
planning any skulduggery--don't."
"I ain't. Not a bit of it. But I got my duty to my company. I can't
get mixed up in any fraycas on yore account, because if I do my ranch
will lose money. That's the flat of it."
"Oh, it is, huh? Yore ranch will lose money if you back me up, hey?
And you ain't thinkin' nothin' of yore precious skin, are yuh? Oh,
no, not a-tall. I wonder what yore company would say to the li'l deal
between you and me that started this business. I wonder what they'd
think of Mr. Lanpher and his sense of duty. Yeah, I would wonder a
whole lot."
"Well--" began Lanpher, lamely.
"Hell!" snarled the stranger. "You make me sick! Now you listen to me.
Yo're in this as deep as I am. If you think you ain't, try to pull
yore wagon out. Just try it, thassall."
"I ain't doing none of the work, that's flat," Lanpher denied,
doggedly.
"You gotta back me up alla same," declared the stranger.
"That wasn't in the bargain," fenced Lanpher.
"It is now," chuckled the stranger. "If I lose, you lose, too.
Lookit," he added in a more conciliatory tone, "can't you see how it
is? I need you, an' you need me. All I'm asking of you is to back
me up when I want you to. Outside of that you can sit on yore
shoulder-blades and enjoy life."
"We didn't bargain on that," harked back Lanpher.
"But that was then, and this is now. Which may not be logic, but it
_is_ necessity, an' Necessity, Mr. Lanpher, is the mother of all kinds
of funny things. So you and I we got to ride together."
Lanpher pushed back his hat and looked over the hills and far away.
The well-known carking care was written large upon his countenance.
Slowly his eyes slid round to meet for a brief moment the eyes of his
companion.
"I can't answer for my men," said Lanpher, shortly.
"Can you answer for yoreself?" inquired the stranger quickly.
"I'll back you up." Grudgingly.
"Then that's all right. You can keep the men from throwing in with the
other side, anyway, can't you?"
"I can do that much."
"Which is quite a lot for a ranch manager to be able to do," was the
stranger's blandly sarcastic observation. "C'mon. We've gassed so much
I'm dry as a covered bridge. I--What does Thompson want now? 'Lo,
Punch."
"'Lo, Jack. Howdy, Lanpher." Racey could not see the newcomer, but
he recognized the voice. It was that of Punch-the-breeze Thompson,
a gentleman well known to make his living by the ingenious
capitalization of an utter lack of moral virtue. "Say, Jack,"
continued Thompson, "Nebraska has been plugged."
"Plugged?" Great amazement on the part of the stranger.
"Plugged."
"Who done it?"
"Feller by the name of Dawson."
"Racey Dawson?" nipped in Lanpher.
"Yeah, him."
Lanpher chuckled slightly.
"Why the laugh?" asked Jack Harpe.
"I'd always thought Nebraska could shoot."
"Nebraska is supposed to be some swift," admitted the stranger. "How'd
it happen, Punch?"
Thompson told him, and on the whole, gave a truthful account.
"What kind of feller is this Dawson?" the stranger inquired after a
moment's silence following the close of the story.
"A skipjack of a no-account cow-wrastler," promptly replied Lanpher.
"He thinks he's hell on the Wabash."
"Allasame he must be old pie to put the kybosh on Nebraska thataway."
"Luck," sneered Lanpher. "Just luck."
"Is he square?" probed the stranger.
"Square as a billiard-ball," said Lanpher. "Why, Jack, he's so crooked
he can't lay in bed straight."
At which Racey Dawson was moved to rise and declare himself. Then the
humour of it struck him. He grinned and hunkered down, his ears on the
stretch.
"Well," said the stranger, refraining from comment on Lanpher's
estimate of the Dawson qualities, "we'll have to get somebody in
Nebraska's place."
"I'm as good as Nebraska," Punch-the-breeze Thompson stated, modestly.
"No," the stranger said, decidedly. "Yo're all right, Punch. But even
if we can get old Chin Whisker drunk, the hand has gotta be quicker
than the eye. Y' understand?"
Thompson, it appeared, did understand. He grunted sulkily.
"We'll have to give Peaches Austin a show," resumed the stranger.
"Nemmine giving me a argument, Punch. I said I'd use Austin. C'mon,
le's go get a drink."
The three men moved away. Racey Dawson cautiously eased his long body
up from behind the pony. With slightly narrowed eyes he stared at the
gate behind which Jack Harpe and his two friends had been standing.
"Now I wonder," mused Racey Dawson, "I shore am wonderin' what kind of
skulduggery li'l Mr. Lanpher of the 88 is a-trying to crawl out of and
what Mr. Stranger is a-trying to drag him into. Nebraska, too, huh? I
was wondering what that feller's name was."
He knelt down again and swiftly completed the bandaging of the cut on
the pony's near fore.
As he rode round the corner of the hotel to reach Main Street he saw
Luke Tweezy single-footing into town from the south. The powdery dust
of the trail filled in and overlaid the lines and creases of Luke
Tweezy's foxy-nosed and leathery visage. Layers of dust almost
completely concealed the original colour of the caked and matted hide
of Luke Tweezy's well-conditioned horse. It was evident that Luke
Tweezy had come from afar.
In common with most range riders Racey Dawson possessed an automatic
eye to detail. Quite without conscious effort his brain registered
and filed away in the card-index of his subconscious mind the picture
presented by the passing of Luke Tweezy, the impression made
thereby, and the inference drawn therefrom. The inference was almost
trivial--merely that Luke Tweezy had come from Marysville, the town
where he lived and had his being. But triviality is frequently
paradoxical and always relative. If Dundee had not raised an arm to
urge his troopers on at Killiekrankie the world would know a different
England. A single thread it was that solved for Theseus the mystery of
the Cretan labyrinth.
Racey Dawson did not like Luke Tweezy. From the sparse and sandy
strands of the Tweezy hair to the long and varied lines of the Tweezy
business there was nothing about Mr. Tweezy that he did like. For Luke
Tweezy's business was ready money and its possibilities. He drove hard
bargains with his neighbours and harder ones with strangers. He bought
county scrip at a liberal discount and lent his profits to the needy
at the highest rate allowed by law.
Luke Tweezy's knowledge of what was allowed by territorial law was not
limited to money-lending. He had been admitted to the bar, and no case
was too small, too large, or too filthy for him to handle.
In his dislike of Luke Tweezy Racey Dawson was not solitary. Luke
Tweezy was as generally unpopular as Lanpher of the 88. But there
was a difference. Where Lanpher's list of acquaintances, nodding and
otherwise, was necessarily confined to the Lazy River country, Luke
Tweezy knew almost every man, woman, and child in the territory.
It was his business to know everybody, and Luke Tweezy was always
attending to his business.
He had nodded and spoken to Racey Dawson as they two passed, and Racey
had returned the greeting gravely.
"Slimy ol' he-buzzard," Racey Dawson observed to himself and reached
for his tobacco.
But there was no tobacco. The sack that he knew he had put in his vest
pocket after breakfast had vanished. Lack of tobacco is a serious
matter. Racey wheeled his mount and spurred to the Blue Pigeon Store.
Five minutes later, smoking a grateful cigarette, he again started
to ride out of town. As he curved his horse round a freight wagon in
front of the Blue Pigeon he saw three men issue from the doorway of
the Happy Heart Saloon. Two of the men were Lanpher and the stranger.
The third was Luke Tweezy. The latter stopped at the saloon
hitching-rail to untie his horse. "See yuh later, Luke," the stranger
flung over his shoulder to Luke Tweezy as he passed on. He and Lanpher
headed diagonally across the street toward the hotel. It seemed odd to
Racey Dawson that Luke Tweezy by no word or sign made acknowledgment
of the stranger's remark.
Racey tickled his mount with the rowels of one spur and stirred him
into a trot. Have to be moving along if he wanted to get there some
time that day. He wished he didn't have to go alone, so he did. The
old lady would surely lay him out, and he wished for company to share
his misery. Why couldn't Swing Tunstall have stayed reasonably in
Farewell instead of traipsing off over the range like a tomfool. Might
not be back for a week, Swing mightn't. Idiotic caper (with other
adjectives) of Swing's, anyway. Why hadn't he used his head? Oh,
Racey Dawson was an exceedingly irritable young man as he rode out of
Farewell. The aches and pains were still throbbingly alive in his own
particular head. The immediate future was not alluring. It was a hard
world.
When he and his mount were breasting the first slight rise of the
northern slope of Indian Ridge--which ridge marks with its long,
broad-backed bulk the southern boundary of the flats south of Farewell
and forces the Marysville trail to travel five miles to go two--a
rider emerged from a small boulder-strewn draw wherein tamaracks grew
thinly.
Racey stared--and forgot his irritation and his headache. The draw
was not more than a quarter-mile distant, and he perceived without
difficulty that the rider was a woman. She quirted her mount into
a gallop, and then seesawed her right arm vigorously. Above the
pattering drum of her horse's hoofs a shout came faintly to his ears.
He pulled up and waited.
When the woman was close to him he saw that it was the good-looking,
brown-haired Happy Heart lookout, the girl whose dog he had protected.
She dragged her horse to a halt at his side and smiled. And, oddly
enough, it was an amazingly sweet smile. It had nothing in common with
the hard smile of her profession.
"I'm sorry I had to leave without thanking you for what you done for
me back there," said she, with a jerk of her head toward distant
Farewell.
"Why, that's all right," Racey told her, awkwardly.
"It meant a lot to me," she went on, her smile fading. "You wouldn't
let that feller hurt me or my dog, and I think the world of that dog."
"Yeah." Thus Racey, very much embarrassed by her gratitude and quite
at a loss as to the proper thing to say.
"Yes, and I'm shore grateful, stranger. I--I won't forget it. That dog
he likes me, he does. And I'm teaching him tricks. He's awful cunnin'.
And company! Say, when I'm feeling rotten that there dog _knows_, and
he climbs up in my lap and licks my ear and tries his best to be a
comfort. I tell you that dog likes me, and that means a whole lot--to
me. I--I ain't forgetting it."
Her face was dark red. She dropped her head and began to fumble with
her reins.
"You needn't 'a' come riding alla way out here just for this," chided
Racey, feeling that he must say something to relieve the situation.
"It wasn't only this," she denied, tiredly. "They was something else.
And I couldn't talk to you in Farewell without him and his friends
finding it out. That's why I borrowed one of Mike Flynn's hosses an'
followed you thisaway--so's we could be private. Le's ride along. I
expect you was going somewhere."
They rode southward side by side a space of time in silence. Racey
had nothing to say. He was too busy speculating as to the true
significance of the girl's presence. What did she want--money? These
saloon floozies always did. He hoped she wouldn't want much. For he
ruefully knew himself to be a soft-hearted fool that was never able to
resist a woman's appeal. He glanced at her covertly. Her little chin
was trembling. Poor kid. That's all she was. Just a kid. Helluva life
for a kid. Shucks.
"Lookit here," said Racey, suddenly, "you in hard luck, huh? Don't you
worry. Yore luck is bound to turn. It always does. How much you want?"
So saying he slid a hand into a side-pocket of his trousers. The girl
shook her head without looking at him.
"It ain't money," she said, dully. "I make enough to keep me going."
Then with a curious flash of temper she continued, "That's always the
way with a man, ain't it? If he thinks yo're in trouble--Give her some
money. If yo're sick--Give her money. If yo're dyin'--Give her money.
Money! Money! Money! I'm so sick of money I--Don't mind me, stranger.
I don't mean nothing. I'm a--a li'l upset to-day. I--it's hard for me
to begin."
Begin! What was the girl driving at?
"Yes," said she. "It's hard. I ain't no snitch. I never was even when
I hadn't no use for a man--like now. But--but you stuck up for me
and my dog, and I gotta pay you back. I gotta. Listen," she pursued,
swiftly, "do you know who that feller was you shot?"
"No." Racey shook his head. "But you don't owe me anything. Forget it.
I dunno what yo're drivin' at, and I don't wanna know if it bothers
you to tell me. But if I can do anything--anything a-tall--to help
you, why, then tell me."
"I know," she nodded. "You'd always help a feller. Yo're that kind.
But I'm all right. That jigger you plugged is Tom Jones."
The girl looked at Racey Dawson as though the name of Tom Jones should
have been informative of much. But, Fieldings excluded, there are many
Tom Joneses. Racey did not react.
"Dunno him," denied Racey Dawson. "I heard his name was Nebraska."
"Nebraska is what the boys call him," she said. "He used to be foreman
of the Currycomb outfit south of Fort Seymour."
"I've heard of Nebraska Jones and the Currycomb bunch all right," he
admitted, soberly. "And I'd shore like to know _what_ was the matter
with Nebraska to-day."
"So would I. _You_ were lucky."
Racey nodded absently. The Currycomb outfit! That charming aggregation
of gunfighters had borne the hardest reputation extant in a
neighbouring territory. Regarding the Currycomb men had been
accustomed to speak behind their hands and under their breaths. For
the Currycomb politically had been a power. Which perhaps was the
_reason_ why, although the rustling of many and many a cow and the
killing of more than one man were laid at their unfriendly door,
nothing had ever been proved against them.
They had prospered exceedingly, these Currycomb boys, till the
election of an opposition sheriff. Which election had put heart into
the more decent set and a crimp in the Currycomb. It did not matter
that legally the Currycomb possessed a clean bill of health. The
community had decided that the Currycomb must be abolished. It
was--cow, cayuse, and cowboy.
While some had remained on the premises at an approximate depth
beneath the grass of two feet (for the ground was hard), the other
Currycombers had scattered wide and far and their accustomed places
knew them no more.
Now it seemed that at least one of the Currycomb boys, and that one
the most notorious character of the lot, had scattered as far as
Farewell and obtruded his personality upon that of Racey Dawson.
Nebraska Jones! A cold smile stretched the corners of Racey's mouth as
he thought on what he had done. He had beaten to the draw the foreman
of the Currycomb. Which undoubtedly must have been the first time
Nebraska had ever been shaded.
The girl was watching his face. "Don't begin to get the notion you
beat him to it," she advised, divining his thought. "He was stunned
sort of that first time, an' the second time his gun caught a little.
Nebraska is slow lightnin' on the pull. Keep thinkin' you was lucky
like you done at first."
Racey laughed shamefacedly. "Yo're too much of a mind reader for me.
But what you telling all this to me for? I ain't the sheriff with a
warrant for Nebraska Jones."
"I'm telling you so you'll know what to expect. So you'll get out of
town and stay out. Because, shore as yo're a foot high, you won't live
a minute longer than is plumb necessary if you don't."
"I beat Nebraska once, and he won't get well of that lead in the
shoulder so jo-awful soon."
"Can you beat a shot in the dark? Can you dodge a knife in the night?
It ain't a question of Nebraska Jones himself. It's the gang he's
managed to pick up in this town. They are meaner than a nest of cross
rattlesnakes. I know 'em. I know what they'll do. Right this minute
they're fixing up some way to give you yore come-uppance."
"Think so?"
"Think so! Say, would I come traipsing out here just for my health--or
yores? Figure it out."
"Seems like you know a lot about Nebraska and his gang," he cast at a
venture, glancing at her sharply.
"I lived with Nebraska--for a while," she said, matter-of-factly,
giving him a calm stare. "Li'l Marie knows all they is to know about
Nebraska Jones--and a little bit more. Which goes double for his
gang."
"Shucks," Racey grunted contemptuously. "Does he and his gang run
Farewell? I'd always thought Farewell was a man's size town."
"They're careful," explained the girl. "They got sense enough not
to run any blazers they can't back to the limit. Yeah, they're
careful--now."
"Now, huh? Later, when they've filled their hands and there's more of
'em playin' they might not be so careful, huh, Marie?"
"Unless yo're a heap careful right now you won't have a thing to do
with 'later,'" she parried. "You do like I say, Mister Man. I ain't a
bit anxious to see you wiped out."
"Wiping me out would shore cramp my style," he admitted. "I--"
At this juncture hoofbeats sounded sharply on the trail behind them.
Racey turned in a flesh, his right hand dropping. But it was only
Lanpher and the stranger riding out of a belt of pines whose deep and
lusty soughing had drowned the noise of their approach.
Lanpher and his comrade rode by at a trot. The former mumbled a
greeting to Racey but barely glanced at the girl. Women did not
interest Lanpher. He was too selfishly stingy. The stranger was more
appreciative. He gave the girl a stare of frank admiration before he
looked at Racey Dawson. The latter perceived that the stranger's eyes
were remarkably black and keen, perceived, too, that the man as he
rode past and on half turned in the saddle for a second look at the
girl.
"Who's yore friend?" asked Marie, an insolent lift to her upper lip
and a slightly puzzled look in her brown eyes as her gaze followed the
stranger and Lanpher.
"Friend?" said Racey. "Speaking personal, now, I ain't lost either of
'em."
"I know who Lanpher is," she told him, impatiently. "I meant the
other."
"I'll never tell yuh. I dunno him."
"I think I've seen him somewhere--sometime. I can't remember where or
how--I see so many men. There! I almost had it. Gone again now. Don't
it make you sick when things get away from you like that? Makes you
think yo're a-losing yore mind almost."
"He looked at you almighty strong," proffered Racey. "Maybe _he'll_
remember. Why don't you ask him?"
"Maybe I will at that," said she.
"Didja know he was a friend of Nebraska's?" he asked, watching her
face keenly.
She shook her head. "Nebraska knows a lot of folks," she said,
indifferently.
"He knows Punch-the-breeze Thompson, too."
"Likely he would, knowing Nebraska. He belongs to Nebraska's bunch."
"What does Nebraska do for a living?"
"Everybody and anything. Mostly he deals a game in the Starlight."
"What does Peaches Austin work at?" he pursued, thinking that it might
be well to learn what he could of the enemy's habits.
"He deals another game in the Happy Heart."
"'The hand is quicker than the eye,'" he quoted, cynically, recalling
what the stranger had said to Punch-the-breeze Thompson.
"Oh, Peaches is slick enough," said she, comprehending instantly. "But
Nebraska is slicker. Don't never sit into no game with Nebraska Jones.
Lookit here," she added, her expression turning suddenly anxious, "did
I take my ride for nothing?"
"Huh?... Oh, that! Shore not. You bet I'm obliged to you, and I hope I
can do as much for you some day. But I wasn't figuring on staying here
any length of time. Swing--he's my friend--and I are going down to try
Arizona a spell. We'll be pulling out to-morrow, I expect."
"Then all you got to look out for is to-night. But I'm telling you you
better drag it to-morrow shore."
Racey smiled slowly. "If it wasn't I got business down south I'd
admire to stay. I ain't leaving a place just because I ain't popular,
not nohow. I'm over twenty-one. I got my growth."
"It don't matter why you go. Yo're a-going. That's enough. It's a good
thing for you you got business, and you can stick a pin in that."
"I'll have to do something about them friends of his alla same, before
I go," Racey said, thoughtfully.
"Huh?" Perplexedly.
"Yeah. If they're a-honing to bushwhack me for what I did to Nebraska,
it ain't fair for me to go sifting off thisaway and not give 'em
some kind of a run for their alley. Look at it close. You can see it
ain't."
"I don't see nothing--"
"Shore you do. It would give 'em too much of a chance to talk. They
might even get to saying they ran me out o' town. And the more I think
of it the more I'm shore they'll be saying just that."
"But you said you was going away. You said you had business in
Arizona."
"Shore I have, and shore I'm going. But first I gotta give Nebraska's
friends a chance to draw cards. A chance, y' understand."
"You'll be killed," she told him, white-lipped.
"Why, no," said he. "Not never a-tall. Drawing cards is one thing and
playing the hand out is a cat with another kind of tail. I got hopes
they won't get too rough with me."
"Well, of all the stubborn damn fools I ever saw--" began the girl,
angrily.
At which Racey Dawson laughed aloud.
"That's all right," she snapped. "You can laugh. Might 'a' knowed you
would. A man is such a plumb idjit. A feller does all she can to show
him the right trail out, and does he take it? He does not. He laughs.
That's what he does. He laughs. He thinks it's funny. You gimme a
pain, you do!"
On the instant she jerked her pony round, whirled her quirt
cross-handed, and tore down the back-trail at full gallop.
"Aw, hell," said Racey, looking after the fleeing damsel regretfully.
"I clean forgot to ask her about the rest of Nebraska's friends."