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The Night-Riders
A Romance of Early Montana
By
RIDGWELL CULLUM
_Author of "The Watchers of the Plains," "The
Sheriff of Dyke Hole," "The Trail of the
Axe," "The One-Way Trail," etc._
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1913, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
_Published February, 1913_
_All rights reserved_ Printed in U. S. A.
[Illustration: He took her in his powerful arms and drew her to his
breast]
Contents
I. IN THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES 9
II. MOSQUITO BEND 26
III. THE BLIND MAN 46
IV. THE NIGHT-RIDERS 68
V. TRESLER BEGINS HIS EDUCATION 82
VI. THE KILLING OF MANSON ORR 104
VII. WHICH DEALS WITH THE MATTER OF DRINK 127
VIII. JOE NELSON INDULGES IN A LITTLE MATCH-MAKING 141
IX. TRESLER INVOLVES HIMSELF FURTHER; THE
LADY JEZEBEL IN A FREAKISH MOOD 157
X. A WILD RIDE 177
XI. THE TRAIL OF THE NIGHT-RIDERS 192
XII. THE RISING OF A SUMMER STORM 213
XIII. THE BEARDING OF JAKE 232
XIV. A PORTENTOUS INTERVIEW 248
XV. AT WILLOW BLUFF 263
XVI. WHAT LOVE WILL DO 285
XVII. THE LIGHTED LAMP 301
XVIII. THE RENUNCIATION 315
XIX. HOT UPON THE TRAIL 332
XX. BY THE LIGHT OF THE LAMP 349
XXI. AT WIDOW DANGLEY'S 364
XXII. THE PURSUIT OF RED MASK 381
XXIII. A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES 395
XXIV. ARIZONA 412
Illustrations
He Took Her in His Powerful Arms and Drew Her
to His Breast _Frontispiece_
A Moment Later He Beheld Two Horsemen
_Facing page_ 74
Left Alone with her Patient, She had Little to Do
but Reflect _Facing page_ 302
The Night-Riders
CHAPTER I
IN THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES
Forks Settlement no longer occupies its place upon the ordnance map of
the state of Montana. At least not _the_ Forks Settlement--the one
which nestled in a hollow on the plains, beneath the shadow of the
Rocky Mountains. It is curious how these little places do contrive to
slip off the map in the course of time. There is no doubt but that
they do, and are wholly forgotten, except, perhaps, by those who
actually lived or visited there. It is this way with all growing
countries, and anywhere from twenty to thirty years ago Montana was
distinctly a new country.
It was about '85 that Forks Settlement enjoyed the height of its
prosperity--a prosperity based on the supply of dry-goods and
machinery to a widely scattered and sparse population of small
ranchers and farmers. These things brought it into existence and kept
it afloat for some years. Then it gradually faded from existence--just
as such places do.
When John Tresler rode into Forks he wondered what rural retreat he
had chanced upon. He didn't wonder in those words, his language was
much more derogatory to the place than that.
It was late one afternoon when his horse ambled gently on to the green
patch which served Forks as a market-place. He drew up and looked
around him for some one to give him information. The place was quite
deserted. It was a roasting hot day, and the people of Forks were not
given to moving about much on hot days, unless imperative business
claimed them. As there were only two seasons in the year when such a
thing was likely to happen, and this was not one of them, no one was
stirring.
The sky was unshaded by a single cloud. Tresler was tired, stiff, and
consumed by a sponge-like thirst, for he was unused to long hours in
the saddle. And he had found a dreary monotony in riding over the
endless prairie lands of the West.
Now he found himself surrounded by an uncertain circle of wooden
houses. None of them suggested luxury, but after the heaving rollers
of grass-land they suggested companionship and life. And just now that
was all the horseman cared about.
He surveyed each house in turn, searching for a single human face. And
at last he beheld a window full of faces staring curiously at him from
the far side of the circle. It was enough. Touching his jaded horse's
flanks he rode over toward it.
Further life appeared now in the form of a small man who edged shyly
round the angle of the building and stood gazing at him. The stranger
was a queer figure. His face was as brown as the surface of a prairie
trail and just as scored with ruts. His long hair and flowing beard
were the color of matured hay. His dress was simple and in keeping
with his face; moleskin trousers, worn and soiled, a blue serge shirt,
a shabby black jacket, and a fiery handkerchief about his neck, while
a battered prairie hat adorned the back of his head.
Tresler pulled his horse up before this welcome vision and slid
stiffly to the ground, while the little man slanted his eyes over his
general outfit.
"Is this Forks Settlement?" the newcomer asked, with an ingratiating
smile. He was a manly looking fellow with black hair and steel-blue
eyes; he was dressed in a plain Norfolk jacket and riding kit. He was
not particularly handsome, but possessed a strong, reliant face.
The stranger closed his eyes in token of acquiescence.
"Ur-hum," he murmured.
"Will you point me out the hotel?"
The other's eyes had finally settled themselves on the magnificent
pair of balloon-shaped corduroy riding-breeches Tresler was wearing,
which had now resettled themselves into their natural voluminous
folds.
He made no audible reply. He was engrossed with the novel vision
before him. A backward jerk of the head was the only sign he permitted
himself.
Tresler looked at the house indicated. He felt in some doubt, and not
without reason. The place was a mere two-storied shanty, all askew and
generally unpromising.
"Can I--that is, does the proprietor take--er--guests?" he asked.
"Guess Carney takes most anythin'," came the easy reply.
The door of the hotel opened and two men came out, eyeing the newcomer
and his horse critically. Then they propped themselves in leisurely
fashion against the door-casing, and chewed silently, while they gazed
abroad with marked unconcern.
Tresler hazarded another question. He felt strange in this company. It
was his first real acquaintance with a prairie settlement, and he
didn't quite know what to expect.
"I wonder if there is any one to see to my horse," he said with some
hesitation.
"Hitch him to the tie-post an' ast in ther'," observed the
uncommunicative man, pointing to a post a few yards from the door, but
without losing interest in the other's nether garments.
"That sounds reasonable."
Tresler moved off and secured his horse and loosened the
saddle-girths.
"Pardon me, sir," he said, when he came back, his well-trimmed six
feet towering over the other's five feet four. "Might I ask whom I
have the pleasure of addressing? My name is John Tresler; I am on my
way to Mosquito Bend, Julian Marbolt's ranch. A stranger, you see, in
a strange land. No doubt you have observed that already," he finished
up good-naturedly.
But the other's attention was not to be diverted from the interesting
spectacle of the corduroys, and he answered without shifting his gaze.
"My name's Ranks--gener'ly called 'Slum.' Howdy."
"Well, Mr. Ranks----"
"Gener'ly called 'Slum,'" interrupted the other.
"Mr. Slum, then----" Tresler smiled.
"Slum!"
The man's emphasis was marked. There was no cheating him of his due.
"Slum" was his sobriquet by the courtesy of prairie custom. "Ranks"
was purely a paternal heirloom and of no consequence at all.
"Well, Slum," Tresler laughed, "suppose we go and sample Carney's
refreshments. I'm tired, and possess a thirst."
He stepped toward the doorway and looked back. Mr. Ranks had not
moved. Only his wondering eyes had followed the other's movements.
"Won't you join me?" Tresler asked. Then, noting the fixed stare in
the man's eyes, he went on with some impatience, "What the dickens are
you staring at?" And, in self-defense, he was forced into a survey of
his own riding-breeches.
Slum looked up. A twinkle of amusement shone beneath his heavy brows,
while a broad grin parted the hair on his face.
"Oh, jest nothin'," he said amiably. "I wer' kind o' figgerin' out
what sort of a feller them pants o' yours wus made for." He doused the
brown earth at his feet with tobacco juice. Then shaking his head
thoughtfully, a look of solemn wonder replaced the grin. "Say," he
added, "but he must 'a' bin a dandy chunk of a man."
Tresler was about to reply. But a glance at Mr. Ranks, and an audible
snigger coming from the doorway, suddenly changed his mind. He swung
round to face a howl of laughter; and he understood.
"The drinks are on me," he said with some chagrin. "Come on, all of
you. Yes, I'm a 'tenderfoot.'"
And it was the geniality of his reply that won him a place in the
society of Forks Settlement at once. In five minutes his horse was
stabled and cared for. In five minutes he was addressing the occupants
of the saloon by their familiar nicknames. In five minutes he was
paying for whisky at an exorbitant price. In five minutes--well, he
sniffed his first breath of prairie habits and prairie ways.
It is not necessary to delve deeply into the characters of these
citizens of Forks. It is not good to rake bad soil, the process is
always offensive. A mere outline is alone necessary. Ike Carney
purveyed liquor. A little man with quick, cunning eyes, and a mouth
that shut tight under a close-cut fringe of gray moustache. "Shaky"
Pindle, the carpenter, was a sad-eyed man who looked as gentle as a
disguised wolf. His big, scarred face never smiled, because, his
friends said, it was a physical impossibility for it to do so, and his
huge, rough body was as uncouth as his manners, and as unwieldy as his
slow-moving tongue. Taylor, otherwise "Twirly," the butcher, was a man
so genial and rubicund that in five minutes you began to wish that he
was built like the lower animals that have no means of giving audible
expression to their good humor, or, if they have, there is no
necessity to notice it except by a well-directed kick. And Slum,
quiet, unsophisticated Slum, shadier than the shadiest of them all,
but a man who took the keenest delight in the humors of life, and who
did wrong from an inordinate delight in besting his neighbors. A man
to smile at, but to avoid.
These were the men John Tresler, fresh from Harvard and a generous
home, found himself associated with while he rested on his way to
Mosquito Bend.
Ike Carney laid himself out to be pleasant.
"Goin' to Skitter Bend?" he observed, as he handed his new guest the
change out of a one hundred dollar bill. "Wal, it's a tidy
layout;--ninety-five dollars, mister; a dollar a drink. You'll find
that c'rect--best ranch around these parts. Say," he went on, "the ol'
blind hoss has hunched it together pretty neat. I'll say that."
"Blind mule," put in Slum, vaulting to a seat on the bar.
"Mule?" questioned Shaky, with profound scorn. "Guess you ain't worked
around his layout, Slum. Skunk's my notion of him. I 'lows his
kickin's most like a mule's, but ther' ain't nothin' more to the
likeness. A mule's a hard-workin', decent cit'zen, which ain't off'n
said o' Julian Marbolt."
Shaky swung a leg over the back of a chair and sat down with his arms
folded across it, and his heavy bearded chin resting upon them.
"But you can't expect a blind man to be the essence of amiability,"
said Tresler. "Think of his condition."
"See here, young feller," jerked in Shaky, thrusting his chin-beard
forward aggressively. "Condition ain't to be figgered on when a man
keeps a great hulkin', bulldozin' swine of a foreman like Jake
Harnach. Say, them two, the blind skunk an' Jake, ken raise more hell
in five minutes around that ranch than a tribe o' neches on the
war-path. I built a barn on that place last summer, an' I guess I
know."
"Comforting for me," observed Tresler, with a laugh.
"Oh, you ain't like to git his rough edge," put in Carney, easily.
"Guess you're payin' a premium?" asked Shaky.
"I'm going to have three years' teaching."
"Three years o' Skitter Bend?" said Slum, quietly. "Guess you'll learn
a deal in three years o' Skitter Bend."
The little man chewed the end of a cigar Tresler had presented him
with, while his twinkling eyes exchanged meaning glances with his
comrades. Twirly laughed loudly and backed against the bar, stretching
out his arms on either side of him, and gripping its moulded edge with
his beefy hands.
"An' you're payin' fer that teachin'?" the butcher asked
incredulously, when his mirth had subsided.
"It seems the custom in this country to pay for everything you get,"
Tresler answered, a little shortly.
He was being laughed at more than he cared about. Still he checked his
annoyance. He wanted to know something about the local reputation of
the rancher he had apprenticed himself to, so he fired a direct
question in amongst his audience.
"Look here," he said sharply. "What's the game? What's the matter with
this Julian Marbolt?"
He looked round for an answer, which, for some minutes, did not seem
to be forthcoming.
Slum broke the silence at last. "He's blind," he said quietly.
"I know that," retorted Tresler, impatiently. "It's something else I
want to know."
He looked at the butcher, who only laughed. He turned on the
saloon-keeper, who shook his head. Finally he applied to Shaky.
"Wal," the carpenter began, with a ponderous air of weighing his
words. "I ain't the man to judge a feller offhand like. I 'lows I know
suthin' o' the blind man o' Skitter Bend, seein' I wus workin'
contract fer him all last summer. An' wot I knows is--nasty. I've
see'd things on that ranch as made me git a tight grip on my axe, an'
long a'mighty hard to bust a few heads in. I've see'd that all-fired
Jake Harnach, the foreman, hammer hell out o' some o' the hands, wi'
tha' blind man standin' by jest as though his gummy eyes could see
what was doin', and I've watched his ugly face workin' wi' every blow
as Jake pounded, 'cos o' the pleasure it give him. I've see'd some o'
those fellers wilter right down an' grovel like yaller dorgs at their
master's feet. I've see'd that butcher-lovin' lot handle their hosses
an' steers like so much dead meat--an' wuss'n. I've see'd hell around
that ranch. 'An' why for,' you asks, 'do their punchers an' hands
stand it?' ''Cos,' I answers quick, 'ther' ain't a job on this
countryside fer 'em after Julian Marbolt's done with 'em.' That's why.
'Wher' wus you workin' around before?' asks a foreman. 'Skitter Bend,'
says the puncher. 'Ain't got nothin' fer you,' says the foreman
quick; 'guess this ain't no butcherin' bizness!' An' that's jest how
it is right thro' with Skitter Bend," Shaky finished up, drenching the
spittoon against the bar with consummate accuracy.
"Right--dead right," said Twirly, with a laugh.
"Guess, mebbe, you're prejudiced some," suggested Carney, with an eye
on his visitor.
"Shaky's taken to book readin'," said Slum, gently. "Guess dime
fiction gits a powerful holt on some folk."
"Dime fiction y'rself," retorted Shaky, sullenly. "Mebbe young Dave
Steele as come back from ther' with a hole in his head that left him
plumb crazy ever since till he died, 'cos o' some racket he had wi'
Jake--mebbe that's out of a dime fiction. Say, you git right to it,
an' kep on sousin' whisky, Slum Ranks. You ken do that--you can't tell
me 'bout the blind man."
A pause in the conversation followed while Ike dried some glasses. The
room was getting dark. It was a cheerless den. Tresler was
thoughtfully smoking. He was digesting and sifting what he had heard;
trying to separate fact from fiction in Shaky's story. He felt that
there must be some exaggeration. At last he broke the silence, and all
eyes were turned on him.
"And do you mean to say there is no law to protect people on these
outlying stations? Do you mean to tell me that men sit down quietly
under such dastardly tyranny?" His questions were more particularly
directed toward Shaky.
"Law?" replied the carpenter. "Law? Say, we don't rec'nize no law
around these parts--not yet. Mebbe it's comin', but--I 'lows ther's
jest one law at present, an' that we mostly carries on us. Oh, Jake
Harnach's met his match 'fore now. But 'tain't frekent. Yes, Jake's a
big swine, wi' the muscle o' two men; but I've seen him git downed,
and not a hund'ed mile from wher' we're settin'. Say, Ike," he turned
to the man behind the bar, "you ain't like to fergit the night Black
Anton called his 'hand.' Ther' ain't no bluff to Anton. When he gits
to the bizness end of a gun it's best to get your thumbs up sudden."
The saloon-keeper nodded. "Guess there's one man who's got Jake's
measure, an' that's Black Anton."
The butcher added a punctuating laugh, while Slum nodded.
"And who's Black Anton?" asked Tresler of the saloon-keeper.
"Anton? Wal, I guess he's Marbolt's private hoss keeper. He's a
half-breed. French-Canadian; an' tough. Say, he's jest as quiet an'
easy you wouldn't know he was around. Soft spoken as a woman, an' jest
about as vicious as a rattler. Guess you'll meet him. An' I 'lows he's
meetable--till he's riled."
"Pleasant sort of man if he can cow this wonderful Jake," observed
Tresler, quietly.
"Oh, yes, pleasant 'nough," said Ike, mistaking his guest's meaning.
"The only thing I can't understand 'bout Anton," said Slum, suddenly
becoming interested, "is that he's earnin' his livin' honest. He's too
quiet, an'--an' iley. He sort o' slid into this territory wi'out a
blamed cit'zen of us knowin'. We've heerd tell of him sence from
'crost the border, an' the yarns ain't nice. I don't figger to argue
wi' strangers at no time, an' when Anton's around I don't never git
givin' no opinion till he's done talkin', when I mostly find mine's
the same as his."
"Some folks ain't got no grit," growled Shaky, contemptuously.
"An' some folk 'a' got so much grit they ain't got no room fer savee,"
rapped in Slum sharply.
"Meanin' me," said Shaky, sitting up angrily.
"I 'lows you've got grit," replied the little man quietly, looking
squarely into the big man's eyes.
"Go to h----"
"Guess I'd as lief be in Forks; it's warmer," replied Slum,
imperturbably.
"Stow yer gas! You nag like a widder as can't git a second man."
"Which wouldn't happen wi' folk o' your kidney around."
Shaky was on his feet in an instant, and his anger was blazing in his
fierce eyes.
"Say, you gorl----"
"Set right ther', Shaky," broke in Slum, as the big man sprang toward
him. "Set right ther'; ther' ain't goin' to be no hoss-play."
Slum Ranks had not shifted his position, but his right hand had dived
into his jacket pocket and his eyes flashed ominously. And the
carpenter dropped back into his seat without a word.
And Tresler looked on in amazement. It was all so quick, so sudden.
There had hardly been a breathing space between the passing of their
good-nature and their swift-rising anger. The strangeness of it all,
the lawlessness, fascinated him. He knew he was on the fringe of
civilization, but he had had no idea of how sparse and short that
fringe was. He thought that civilization depended on the presence of
white folk. That, of necessity, white folk must themselves have the
instincts of civilization.
Here he saw men, apparently good comrades all, who were ready, on the
smallest provocation, to turn and rend each other. It was certainly a
new life to him, something that perhaps he had vaguely dreamt of, but
the possibility of the existence of which he had never seriously
considered.
But, curiously enough, as he beheld these things for himself for the
first time, they produced no shock, they disturbed him in nowise. It
all seemed so natural. More, it roused in him a feeling that such
things should be. Possibly this feeling was due to his own upbringing,
which had been that of an essentially athletic university. He even
felt the warm blood surge through his veins at the prospect of a
forcible termination to the two men's swift passage of arms.
But the ebullition died out as quickly as it had risen. Slum slid from
the bar to the ground, and his deep-set eyes were smiling again.
"Pshaw," he said, with a careless shrug, "ther' ain't nothin' to grit
wi'out savee."
Shaky rose and stretched himself as though nothing had happened to
disturb the harmony of the meeting. The butcher relinquished his hold
on the bar and moved across to the window.
"Guess the missis'll be shoutin' around fer you fellers to git your
suppers," Slum observed cheerfully. Then he turned to Tresler. "Ike,
here, don't run no boarders. Mebbe you'd best git around to my shack.
Sally'll fix you up with a blanket or two, an' the grub ain't bad. You
see, I run a boardin'-house fer the boys--leastways, Sally does."
And Tresler adopted the suggestion. He had no choice but to do so.
Anyway, he was quite satisfied with the arrangement. He had entered
the life of the prairie and was more than willing to adopt its ways
and its people.
And the recollection of that first night in Forks remained with him
when the memory of many subsequent nights had passed from him. It
stuck to him as only the first strong impressions of a new life can.
He met Sally Ranks--she was two sizes too large for the dining-room of
the boarding-house--who talked in a shrieking nasal manner that cut
the air like a knife, and who heaped the plates with coarse food that
it was well to have a good appetite to face. He dined for the first
time in his life at a table that had no cloth, and devoured his food
with the aid of a knife and fork that had never seen a burnish since
they had first entered the establishment, and drank boiled tea out of
a tin cup that had once been enameled. He was no longer John Tresler,
fresh from the New England States, but one of fourteen boarders, the
majority of whom doubled the necessary length of their sentences when
they conversed by reason of an extensive vocabulary of blasphemy, and
picked their teeth with their forks.
But it was pleasant to him. He was surrounded by something approaching
the natural man. Maybe they were drawn from the dregs of society, but
nevertheless they had forcibly established their right to live--a
feature that had lifted them from the ruck of thousands of law-abiding
citizens. He experienced a friendly feeling for these ruffians. More,
he had a certain respect for them.
After supper many of them drifted back to their recreation-ground, the
saloon. Tresler, although he had no inclination for drink, would have
done the same. He wished to see more of the people, to study them as a
man who wishes to prepare himself for a new part. But the quiet Slum
drew him back and talked gently to him; and he listened.
"Say, Tresler," the little man remarked offhandedly, "ther's three
fellers lookin' fer a gamble. Two of 'em ain't a deal at 'draw,' the
other's pretty neat. I tho't, mebbe, you'd notion a hand up here wi'
us. It's better'n loafin' down 't the saloon. We most gener'ly play a
dollar limit."
And so it was arranged. Tresler stayed. He was initiated. He learned
the result of a game of "draw" in Forks, where the players made the
whole game of life a gamble, and attained a marked proficiency in the
art.
The result was inevitable. By midnight there were four richer citizens
in Forks, and a newcomer who was poorer by his change out of a
hundred-dollar bill. But Tresler lost quite cheerfully. He never
really knew how it was he lost, whether it was his bad play or bad
luck. He was too tired and sleepy long before the game ended. He
realized next morning, when he came to reflect, that in some
mysterious manner he had been done. However, he took his initiation
philosophically, making only a mental reservation for future guidance.
That night he slept on a palliasse of straw, with a pillow consisting
of a thin bolster propped on his outer clothes. Three very yellow
blankets made up the tally of comfort. And the whole was spread out on
the floor of a room in which four other men were sleeping noisily.
After breakfast he paid his bill, and, procuring his horse, prepared
for departure. His first acquaintance in Forks stood his friend to the
last. Slum it was who looked round his horse to see that the girths of
the saddle were all right; Slum it was who praised the beast in quiet,
critical tones; Slum it was who shook him by the hand and wished him
luck; Slum it was who gave him a parting word of advice; just as it
was Slum who had first met him with ridicule, cared for him--at a
price--during his sojourn, and quietly robbed him at a game he knew
little about. And Tresler, with the philosophy of a man who has that
within him which must make for achievement, smiled, shook hands
heartily and with good will, and quietly stored up the wisdom he had
acquired in his first night in Forks Settlement.
"Say, Tresler," exclaimed Slum, kindly, as he wrung his departing
guest's hand, "I'm real glad I've met you. I 'lows, comin' as you did,
you might 'a' run dead into some durned skunk as hadn't the manners
for dealin' with a hog. There's a hatful of 'em in Forks. S'long. Say,
ther's a gal at Skitter Bend. She's the ol' blind boss's daughter, an'
she's a dandy. But don't git sparkin' her wi' the ol' man around."
Tresler laughed. Slum amused him.
"Good-bye," he said. "Your kindness has taken a load--off my mind. I
know more than I did yesterday morning. No, I won't get sparking the
girl with the old man around. See you again some time."
And he passed out of Forks.
"That feller's a decent--no, he's a gentleman," muttered Slum, staring
after the receding horseman. "Guess Skitter Bend's jest about the
place fer him. He'll bob out on top like a cork in a water bar'l. Say,
Jake Harnach'll git his feathers trimmed or I don't know a
'deuce-spot' from a 'straight flush.'"
Which sentiment spoke volumes for his opinion of the man who had just
left him.