And Jim Kelton was thinking the same thing as he sat on the shady
veranda at the JK that day and mulled over what Jane had told him. His
daughter had heard much which had been said to Blaze Nolan at the
Triangle X, and he felt his hatred of Blaze oozing away to a certain
extent. Either Blaze was still loyal to the cattlemen of Painted Valley,
or he didn’t know where the Lost Trail was located.
Harry came up to see him, still dusty from a long ride.
“I saw Tommy Simpson to-day, dad. Sam Hawker went out to the Triangle X
to have a talk with Kendall Marsh, but Marsh has left the valley. The
bank refused to renew Sam’s mortgage, and I guess Sam went out there to
argue it out with Marsh. Tommy said that the gang out there acted kinda
meek and mild, and Terry Ione is goin’ around with his head all bandaged
up.”
“What do you think of Jane’s story?” asked his father.
“It looks as though Blaze Nolan wasn’t so strong with Marsh. Jane was a
little fool to go out there, and I feel like kickin’ myself for givin’
her the chance; but you know Jane. Dad, I think she’s fightin’ for a
chance to help Blaze Nolan.”
“Women are queer critters, son. But I can’t believe that Nolan carried
her all the way from the Triangle X to Medicine Tree, without knowin’
who she was. And if this other woman has lied about him and done all
them things against him, why did he pick her up and take her to town?”
“Jane spoke about that. She said Nolan told her it was because she was a
woman.”
The old man nodded slowly.
“Some men are queer critters, too.”
“Tommy says Hawker is goin’ to round up his stock and see if he can’t
save a little out of the wreck. It’ll break old Sam, and he knows it,
but he swears that Kendall Marsh will never get the O Bar B ranch as
long as he lives. Marsh owns the bank, the War Dance Saloon and the
Triangle X, and he’s got the rest of us under his thumb.”
“And he’s pulled out of the valley, eh?”
“That’s what Tommy says. But that don’t mean anythin’, as far as our
condition is concerned. Marsh can work from one place as well as
another.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see what happens. If Blaze Nolan won’t tell
Kendall Marsh where the Lost Trail is located, we’re safe, as far as
rustlin’ our stock is concerned, and if it come to a showdown, I’ll go
broke before I’ll give up keepin’ cases on the Pass.”
That night Bad News Buker got drunk. Inaction palled upon him, and he
looked upon the flowing bowl for inspiration. A bad example as an
officer of the law, it is true; but Bad News was human, in spite of his
job.
Then came Tommy Simpson from the O Bar B, and “Ole” Olsen, from the Bar
Anchor. Ole was a huge, blond, open-faced sort of person, while Tommy
was of medium height, with copper-coloured hair and a wide mouth. Ole’s
laugh was thunderous in its capacity, and after a few drinks he was as
gentle as a grizzly bear.
Bad News welcomed them to his one-ring circus, which made it a
three-ring attraction, and they started out to put on a regular show.
“Thish is the time fer all good men to come to the aid of their party,”
declared Bad News, after they had become sufficiently organised to
appreciate their own worth.
“Motion made an’ carried,” stated Tommy. “We shall now procheed to shave
the country. Ole, will you lead us in our openin’ shong?”
“Hold everythin’,” begged Oscar, the barkeep. “Don’t let Ole sing. My
gosh, he shakes all the glasses loose from the back bar.”
“Ole,” said Bad News seriously, “has what I conshider a good voice.”
“It’s durable,” agreed Oscar, “but not musical.”
“That’s all accordin’ to yore ears,” said Tommy owlishly. “Fer my part,
I don’t want it too damn’ musical. And who has a better right to shing.
I’d crave to know? Wasn’t it one of Ole’s anchestors who dis-dischovered
this wonnerful land?”
“What’s the joke?” asked Oscar.
“Th’t a fact,” agreed Ole. “He shore discovered America.”
“Hey!” snorted Oscar. “You ain’t no Eyetalian, Ole. Columbus was an
Eyetalian, you big Swede.”
“Shore was; but he never discovered thish country. It was my
grandfather, I tell yuh; old man Erickson.”
“Yore grandfather?”
“Sure as hell. My mother’s name was Erickson, and she married a Olsen.”
“Which makes you a Swedish cowpuncher in spite of anythin’,” said Tommy
seriously. “But how about a shong?”
“With all that behind me, I could have been anythin’ I wanted to be,”
declared Ole, his chest swelling visibly.
Tommy, as he reached for the bottle and helped himself to a drink, sang
in a quivering tenor:
“Oh, man wants little here belo-o-ow,
But he never gets that much.”
“If Columbus didn’t discover this country, what did he discover?” asked
Oscar, making a mental note that Tommy owed the house two-bits.
“He discovered how to make an egg stand on end,” said Tommy seriously.
“It was a great boon to humanity.”
“Stand an egg on end?” Oscar was interested.
“Shore. Didn’t yuh ever see it done?”
“Aw, yuh can’t stand no egg on end.”
“All of which shows that you came from Yuma, Oscar. All it takes is
practice.”
Oscar took a couple of eggs from beneath the bar and proceeded to try
and stand one on end on the back-bar. Needless to say, he was
unsuccessful. Alden Marsh came in and stopped between the bar and a
poker table, possibly wondering what Oscar was tryin to do with the egg.
Alden was wearing a pair of robin’s-egg blue trousers, which were
palpably new, as the creases were still sharply visible, although a
trifle tight in spots. The newness of the trousers did not correspond
with the rest of his raiment, which was far from new.
“Aw, there can’t nobody stand an egg on end,” declared Oscar, turning
back to the bar.
“Can if yuh know how,” said Tommy. “Gimme the aig.”
Oscar passed one of them to Tommy, who drew up his sleeves in imitation
of a magician. He placed the egg on end, holding it with the forefinger
of his left hand.
“Now, you’ve gotta watch it close, Oscar. This is just a trick of
balancin’, and it don’t stay on end very long.”
The fact of the matter was, Tommy was almost too drunk to even keep his
own balance. Oscar hunched down behind the bar in close proximity to the
egg, his eyes intent on the egg itself. And with a swift motion of his
right palm, Tommy came down upon the egg with crushing force, and the
contents of the egg just squirted out into the face of the interested
Oscar.
He staggered against the back bar, one hand clawing at the mess on his
face. It wasn’t an overly fresh egg. Then he drew back his right hand
and flung the other egg at Tommy’s head, but his aim was poor, possibly
due to his eyes being full of egg at the time, and the egg hit Alden
Marsh square in the belt-buckle and sagged down in a yellowish mass over
his robin’s-egg blue pants.
For several moments Alden Marsh looked down at his pants, a queer
expression in his eyes. Then he sniffed audibly. The egg was probably
older than the one Oscar was digging out of his eyes. Alden Marsh was
just a little drunk, but not drunk enough to brook any such an insult.
He reached for his gun, but too late; Tommy Simpson had jerked him
sideways, throwing him off his balance, taken the gun and headed for the
front door, while behind him went Bad News and Ole Olsen, whose
grandfather had discovered America.
Alden Marsh was mad. In fact, he was so mad that he stood in the middle
of the saloon and told the wide world all about Tommy Simpson, not
considering that Oscar, the barkeep, had thrown the egg. Possibly he
blamed Tommy for not getting hit with the ancient bit of hen-fruit.
While the cursing didn’t hurt Tommy, who had faded from the scene, it
served as sort of a blow-off for Alden. He bought himself a drink and
considered the future.
The pants didn’t belong to him; they belonged to Terry Ione, and Terry
wasn’t there when Alden took them. A nail in the corral fence had ruined
Alden’s overalls, and there wasn’t another pair around the ranch; so he
took Terry’s new pants. Robin’s-egg blue didn’t look well with that
glazing of egg-yolk; it looked like a weak sunset in a midday sky. Alden
sighed and decided to kill Tommy Simpson.
He tried to borrow a gun from the bartender, who didn’t own one, and
then decided to try and find Tommy and get his own gun back. He thought
Tommy might be a trusting soul. And while Alden went in search of Tommy
Simpson, Terry Ione rode in to Medicine Tree. He wore the coat and vest
of that Robin’s-egg blue suit.
Alden went to two other small saloons, looking for Tommy, and in each
saloon he drank deeply; too deeply, perhaps. But he managed to forget
the eggs so entirely that less than an hour later, when he met Terry in
front of the War Dance Saloon, he had forgotten the incident entirely.
“H’lo, par’ner,” he greeted Terry jovially. “Whash on yore mind?”
Terry looked him over gravely. They were a queer looking pair. One with
a robin’s-egg blue coat and vest, with overalls; the other with
robin’s-egg blue trousers, slightly soiled, and an old, stringy vest and
no coat.
“I’ve got a secret,” said Terry seriously. “C’mon where nobody can hear
it, and I’ll let yuh in on it.”
“That’s great,” said Alden owlishly. “I hope it’s good.”
“If it ain’t, it’s my fault, feller.”
Alden travelled across the street like a boat in a heavy gale, but he
reached the sidewalk in front of the Medicine Tree Bank. Terry led the
way down an alley past the bank, while to his ears came the sound of
doubtful harmony, rendered by Tommy Simpson, Bad News Buker and Ole
Olsen, who were singing in Bad New’s little office just down the street:
“Old Man Lute was a gol darned brute,
And he couldn’t git his cattle up the gol darned chute;
With a hi and a yi and a hi-yi laddy o-aye.”
“I can hear shingin’,” declared Alden.
“Yea-a-ah; and that ain’t a marker to what yo’re goin’ to _see_,
feller.”
_Bam!_ And Alden Marsh thought somebody had thrown a lighted match in a
car-load of fireworks. Terry could pistol-whip a man nicely, when he put
his mind to it.