Goober Glendon met Frank Austin on the street next morning, and Austin
would have passed him by without a sign of recognition. “Hyah, Frank,”
said Goober, his pale eyes twinkling. Austin turned quickly to look at
the lean old cowboy.
“I beg your pardon?” said Austin blankly.
“Don’t yuh remember Goober Glendon, Frank?”
“Goober Glendon? Why, I--yes, I believe I do. How are you?”
“Pretty goo-o-o-od,” drawled Goober slowly. “You ain’t tryin’ to be
funny, are yuh?”
“Funny? Not at all.”
“You jist barely remember me, eh?”
“Yes, I remember you.”
“Well, that’s fine,” said Goober coldly, and walked on. Goober was hurt,
and justly so. He and Frank Austin had ridden the range together, fought
together, slept under the same blanket on the round-up. Now Frank Austin
barely remembered him. “Money,” decided Goober bitterly. “Too much
money.”
He passed Mrs. Austin and Betty a few minutes later, as he was going
down to the livery stable, where he found Johnny Wells.
“Didja see Austin?” asked Johnny.
“Yeah, I seen him.”
“Ask him about jobs on his ranch?”
Goober leaned against the stall and considered Johnny’s question.
Finally he sighed deeply and shook his head.
“Johnny, I’ve been hurt damn bad. Me and Austin used to be closer’n two
fingers on the same hand--but he’s shore forgot all about them days.”
“Yuh mean he didn’t know yuh, Goober?”
“I told him who I was, and he--he kinda remembered me. Not a hell of a
lot, but the name was kinda familiar, somehow.”
“That’s kinda funny,” said Johnny soberly.
“It ain’t funny to me.”
“You know what I mean, Goober. By the way, I seen the wife and
daughter.”
“Good-lookin’ girl. Looks a lot like her brother.”
“Uh-huh,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “The old lady shore looks high and
mighty. Betcha if she was hit hard she’d fall full length. Walks like
she didn’t have a joint in her back. Well, Goober, what are we goin’ to
do?”
“Goin’ to Keno City, f’r one thing. Might as well saddle up and hit the
hills before it gits too blamed hot.”
“Suits me,” nodded Johnny. “You pay for the feed and I’ll hook on the
hulls. Didja pay the bill at the hotel?”
“Paid it last night.”
The stage team was being harnessed as the pair rode out of Silver Bar,
and they saw the Austin family, with Cal Sands, in front of the stage
office. None of them paid any attention to the two cowboys. Johnny
looked them over, but Goober rode stiffly, looking ahead, chin tilted
up a little.
In earlier days Keno City was a trading post, building up slowly as the
cattle business increased. It had no name until a gambler, noticing four
cottonwoods in a row, said, “Keno.”
Some one facetiously added the “City,” and the place had a name. Later
a branch railroad was built in from Indian Wells, fifteen miles south,
and extended to Shelby, thirty miles north. Before the advent of the
railroad, Keno City’s only connection with the outside world was via
stage line to Silver Bar; and this stage line still existed. Silver
Bar was in a different county than Keno City, which was also a county
seat.
But in spite of the railroad and the county offices, Keno City never
grew out of the cow-town stage. As a cowboy rhymed it: “Keno town,
Main Street, Miles’ Hotel and nothin’ to eat.”
It was ten miles from Indian Wells to the Mexican border, and Indian
Wells was more Mexican than English. The Star A ranch was located three
miles east of Keno City.
Goober Glendon and Johnny rode into Keno City and stabled their horses.
They had travelled slowly, but were glad to dismount and stretch their
legs. A café sign beckoned them, and they were soon doing justice to
“cowboy turkey,” otherwise known as ham and eggs, country style.
“She looks like a gone-to-seed cow-town,” observed Goober between
mouthfuls. “Signs all faded, hitch-racks half et up. Must be a lot of
horses fatted up on post oats around here.”
Over against the wall, sadly contemplating the remains of his meal, was
a tall, sad-eyed cowboy person. He turned his sad eyes upon Goober and
nodded.
“Gone t’ seed,” he said slowly. “And these yere broncs around Keno City
are kin to a beaver. ’F they had a little water, they’d prob’ly build
dams out of them hitch-racks.”
“Shy on water, eh?” asked Goober seriously.
“Huh! Yuh didn’t see no clouds in the sky when yuh come in, didja?”
“Not a one, pardner.”
“Uh-huh. I was jist tryin’ to estimate how far it was to water. When a
rain cloud comes along we’re closer t’ water than usual.”
“Have to go deep, eh?” queried Johnny.
“Couple thousand feet below that. Strangers, ain’tcha? Yea-a-ah, yuh
don’t look like anybody I’ve seen, and I know everybody. My name’s
William Wallace Hill, deppity sheriff. Knowed far and wide as Smoky
Hill. You stealum, we git yuh. That’s our motto. Only we don’t git
nobody.”
“Who’s the sheriff over here?” asked Goober.
“Peter Quincy La Plante. Sounds fancy, don’t it? But he ain’t. When it
comes to bein’ a sheriff, Pete’s jist like a pair of crutches goin’
huntin’ for a cripple.”
Smoky got up and stretched his six feet five to about six feet eight,
settled back to his normal height and sighed deeply.
“Know a sheriff named Nolan?” asked Goober.
“Nolan? Over around Silver Bar? Shore. Good man, Nolan is.”
“Didja know a feller named Jigger Slade?”
“Uh-huh. Works for the Star A out here.”
“Did,” corrected Goober dryly. “Got killed in Silver Bar last night.”
“Killed? The hell he did! Who killed him?”
“I heard,” said Goober slowly, “that it was a waddy from over on the
Flask River country. Self-defence--both drunk.”
“Oh, yea-a-a-ah? Imagine that! Slade, eh? Didn’t hear what the waddy’s
name was, didja?”
“Nolan didn’t say,” Goober said in a noncommittal tone.
“Nolan see it?”
“Yeah.”
Smoky sat down with them until they finished, and they walked out
together.
“C’mon down to the office and I’ll make yuh used to Pete La Plante,”
invited Smoky. “Not that it’s anything to write home about,” he hastened
to add, “but it’s cool down there.”
As they sauntered down to the office Cal Sands rode into town, and
went to the stage office. Goober took a look at Sands’ sorrel horse
and decided that Sands had been riding rather fast. They met Pete La
Plante at the office, and Goober introduced himself and Johnny by
name.
Pete La Plante was a wiry little man, with fierce moustaches and a mild
gray eye. He wore a thirteen collar and a number ten boot; he chewed
tobacco violently and his shirt front showed it.
“Glendon, eh?” grunted Pete. “Name’s familiar. Texas Rangers?”
“Long time ago,” grinned Goober.
“Same here,” nodded Pete, and they shook hands solemnly.
As they started to sit down Cal Sands came striding in.
“Where in hell do yuh suppose that stage is?” asked Sands.
“What are yuh talkin’ about?” replied the sheriff blankly.
“The stage from Silver Bar. It left thirty minutes ahead of me, and I
never passed it on the road.”
The sheriff glanced quickly at his watch. “Jist about due now,” he said.
“You never passed it?” queried Smoky.
Sands reddened angrily. “Of all the damn fool questions! I tell yuh, I
left Silver Bar thirty minutes after the stage left there, and I came
all the way on the road. I never passed it--and it ain’t never arrived
here.”
“And Spook Allen knows the road pretty good, too,” said Smoky. Spook
Allen, he remarked, had been driving that stage for ten years.
“Be pretty hard for Spook to lose his way in that road,” nodded the
sheriff seriously.
“Still, yuh never can tell what a feller will do,” said Smoky
conversationally. “I ’member one time down in Texas, when me and
Barney Haverty got drunk and rode all night over a mile race track.
Thought we was gittin’ away from the sheriff, and come daylight we
found him settin’ in the judges’ stand, waitin’ for us.”
“That’s prob’ly a lie,” observed the sheriff with a judicious air.
“But what about this missin’ stage?” demanded Sands angrily.
“But is it missin’?” queried Smoky. “Jist because you never seen it----”
“Oh, all right. But, I hope we get a sheriff with brains next election.”
“You won’t,” replied Smoky softly. “There’s only one man in this county
with brains enough to be sheriff, and he won’t take the job.”
“Who is that?”
“Me.”
“You!” Sands snorted disgustedly and walked to the doorway.
“It’s funny he could come past that stage and never see it,” said the
sheriff. “Must ’a’ been goin’ awful fast, ’cause that road is narrow.”
Sands started to turn his head and reply to the sheriff’s remark, but
jerked back and looked down the road.
“Comin’ now,” he grunted. “What the devil? Frank Austin drivin’!”
Frank Austin was indeed driving the stage, and on the seat beside him
was old Spook Allen, all doubled up in a painful position. Austin caught
sight of the men in front of the sheriff’s office, and swung the team
over against the old wooden sidewalk.
Austin got down quickly, breathing heavily. “Get a doctor for Allen,” he
ordered snappily, as he flung open the door for his wife and daughter.
“What happened?” asked Sands.
“Held up back there about two miles. Allen went for his gun, and they
shot him through the shoulder.”
Mrs. Austin was vehemently indignant. “My heavens, they took our rings
and all our money! Can you imagine that? Betty, do you feel faint? I
know I do.”
The slow moving sheriff was galvanized into action now. A sharp question
to the injured driver, and Pete La Plante was running toward his stable,
followed by Smoky Hill. Sands jumped into the seat and headed the stage
toward the doctor’s office.
“How much did they hit you for?” asked Goober.
Austin turned quickly. “Two diamond rings and about a thousand dollars
in cash. Fine thing to happen! If we had efficient peace officers----”
“You’d almost think yuh was livin’ in a city,” drawled Goober. “Except
that they didn’t rob yuh first and kill yuh afterwards.”
“How many men?” asked Johnny.
“Two--both masked,” replied Austin. “Forced us to drive off the road
down a dry wash.”
“It was really thrilling,” laughed Betty.
“I’d like to hang both of them,” growled Austin.
“I suppose you can give a good description of ’em,” said Johnny.
“Enough to fit any two men in this country.”
“One of them spoke Spanish,” offered Betty. “He called me _dulce amiga_.
What does that mean?”
“Sweetheart,” grinned Johnny.
“Oh!” Betty was willing to retire.
Sands came back from taking Allen to the doctor, and drew up at the
stage office, where a curious crowd had gathered. The sheriff and
deputy rode out of town on the Silver Bar road, knowing full well that
the hold-up men had had plenty of time to put many a mile between them
and any possible pursuit. Sands secured a rig at the livery stable and
took the Austin family away.
“Well, it was worth while to stick up that stage,” mused Goober.
“Thousand dollars and a couple of diamond rings.”
“Mighty nice-lookin’ girl,” said Johnny.
“You ort to nab her,” stated Goober. “You could quit punchin’ cows for
good.”
“I’ll speak to her father about it,” Johnny offered.
“Yeah! Tip it off to mamma, and she’ll prob’ly give yuh her moral
support.”
“I’ll betcha she would, Goober. She looked at me jist once, and I’ve got
chilblains.”
Mrs. Austin’s impression of the Star A ranch was not all flattery. Her
conception of an Arizona ranch was rather vague. Betty, to be sure,
murmured something about its being rather picturesque. It was all in
the point of view, of course.
The ranch house was a rambling old one-storey building, part frame, part
adobe, with a wide porch around two sides. A huge oak almost shaded all
the building. And there were the usual stables, bunk house, sheds, and
corrals, all in need of repairs. There were no flowers, no grass, no
shrubbery.
Old Omaha Adams, the cook--short, fat, with a face like a greasy full
moon--welcomed them with an internal groan. He needed a shave and a
haircut, and the flour sack around his expansive waist was not exactly
spotless. Omaha was a man’s cook, and he didn’t like women; but in a
case of this kind he was obliged to make certain concessions.
Austin went down to the stable with Cal Sands. He was still smarting
over that hold-up and wanted to talk about his losses.
“The only way to get ’em is to catch ’em with the goods,” declared
Sands. “Them two fellers had their get-away all planned; so yuh might
as well pocket yore loss, Austin.”
“I realise that, Cal,” nodded Austin disconsolately. “You know, those
two diamonds were worth a lot of money. The one they took from my wife
was of five carats, and Betty’s was over three.”
“Hadn’t ought to wear ’em out here,” replied Sands. “And another thing;
you arranged to ship Slade’s body out to San Francisco. You didn’t need
to do that. The county is supposed to handle a thing like that; and
besides, Slade wasn’t workin’ here over three months, so you couldn’t
feel responsible for him.”
Austin smiled wryly. “Perhaps if you knew what I know----”
“What was that?” asked Sands quickly.
“That Slade was a cattle detective, sent here by me.”
“The hell he was!”
“Sad but true, Cal. Find the man who shot him, and you’ll find one of
the men who have been stealing our stock. They found out who he was.”
“Find the man who shot him, eh?” muttered Sands.
“That’s the idea.”
“I’m sure sorry this happened,” said Sands slowly. “I didn’t aim to tell
yuh, but I suppose I better; you’d find it out anyway.”
“Find out what?” demanded Austin.
“That Hal killed Slade.”
“My God! No, my son didn’t do that, Cal!”
“Yeah, I’m afraid he did. Drunken quarrel. Nolan, the sheriff, saw it.
We got Hal and sent him home last night before yore train came in.”
Austin turned away and walked over to the corral fence, where he leaned
against the poles, his shoulders slumped wearily.
“We’ll have to keep his mother from findin’ it out,” said Sands.
Austin turned slowly, nodding painfully. “Yes, we can’t let her know.
She isn’t the kind to understand. I--I’ve been through the mill; I know
what it means. But it hurts like the devil, Cal. Hal’s been drinkin’
quite a lot?”
“Too much. He gets in with a gang down in Indian Wells and they raise
the devil. I’ve tried to talk to him, but it’s no use.”
“I’ve got to see him,” said Austin wearily.
“He’s twenty-one,” reminded Sands. “At least that was his answer to me.”
“Yes, I know. Twenty-one; a man. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I had
let this place go to wreck. I’d be better off. I could write it all
off my slate and not miss it financially. But I can’t do it. It’s the
one link that connects me with the old days.”
“Hal took to the game,” said Sands. “He’s got the makings of a cowman,
if he’d let liquor alone.”
“And women,” added Austin.
“Well, one woman, especially.”
“I’ll stop that. Where is Hal now?”
“We sent him back to Keno City, but he probably went on down to Indian
Wells.”
“Well, we may as well make the best of it. If we can only keep the women
satisfied out here long enough to give me a little time.”
“We’ll do our best,” smiled Sands.