Author of “According to Ng Loy,” “Blind Trails,” etc.
It was an August evening in the valley of the Bunch Grass, and in a year
so dry that the poplars and cottonwoods along the Lost Horse River had
already turned yellow, and the leaves of the willows were a crackling
carpet to the tread of thirsty stock.
No rain had come to the valley since the last Chinook winds had swept
the winter snows, and the river was merely a shallow watercourse of
evil-smelling fluid. The rolling hills, which extended back to the
encircling mountains, were as brown as burlap, and the range cattle
were dusty of hide, thin of flank and red-eyed from the heat.
At the north end of this valley, its boundaries extending to the
encircling cliffs, through which came the road out of Blackfeet Pass,
was the JHF ranch, owned by John H. Fann, known throughout the valley as
“John the Baptist.” This was not because of any religious proclivities,
but because of his enormous size, his great white beard, which swept
almost to his waist, and his massive head of white hair, hanging to his
shoulders.
Just now John Fann sat on the broad steps of the JHF ranch house, a
rambling, unpainted structure, his elbows on his knees and his hands
concealed under his great beard. He might well have posed for Rodin’s
“The Thinker,” although there was a trifle more of sorrow than of
thought in his half-closed eyes.
Behind him, leaning against one of the porch posts, stood “Ma” Fann, a
thin, sad-faced little woman, with large, brown eyes, and a wisp of
colorless hair, drawn tightly back and knotted in what was commonly
known as a “pug.” She was looking off across the seemingly endless
hills, which had lost their drab hues of day and were painted in ivory
and lavender in the glow of the setting sun.
But Ma Fann’s eyes and expression did not register that she was viewing
the beauties of the painted hills. She had seen them many times in the
last fifteen years. Perhaps she had marveled at the Master Artist’s
handiwork at some remote time, but that time was long forgotten.
Just out in front of the steps was Bob Kern, squatted on the heels of
his boots, as he drew meaningless patterns in the dust with a piece of
willow-branch. He was a thin-waisted cowboy, with a face as thin and
bony as the face of a half-starved Indian. His nose had been broken and
grew at a peculiar angle, and one eye was not exactly set in a straight
focus, but his thin-lipped mouth was full of good teeth.
Bob Kern lifted his thin face and squinted narrowly at John Fann. He
looked down at the dust-patterns and cleared his throat softly.
“’T’s all right, John--’f yuh look at it thataway. It ain’t noways my
point of view. Rustlin’ ’s rustlin’, and it don’t make no difference
whether it’s me ’r you or the King of Siam--it’s still rustlin’.”
“Yes, it’s still rustlin’,” said John Fann softly. “Men will always
steal, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder why, Bob.”
“Why?” Bob Kern squinted closely, and then looked up at Ma Fann, “Will
yuh go inside the house, Ma? I’ve gotta swear a few notes.”
Ma Fann smiled wistfully.
“Swearing doesn’t help, Bob.”
“Mebbe not you, Ma--but it does me. It makes me so ---- mad, I tell
yuh. Here they’ve been stealin’ JHF cattle for a year, until--” Bob
Kern spread his hands wearily--“Honest, Ma, we ain’t got enough left
t’ wad a shot-gun.”
“Is it as bad as that, Bob?”
“Wel-l-ll,” drawled Bob, “mebbe it ain’t quite that bad, Ma, but it sure
is gittin’ serious. Another year at this rate and there won’t be a JHF
cow on the Bunch Grass range.”
A rider was coming down one of the angling trails toward the main gate,
riding slowly. He dismounted and opened the gate, which creaked
dismally. Somewhere a cow bawled softly. The gate creaked shut and the
man started toward the corral, leading his horse. The man was short and
fat, with the waddling walk of a duck.
“‘Splinter’s’ likely hungry, Ma,” observed John Fann.
“He mostly always is,” said Ma Fann, “I’ll put the biscuits in the
oven.”
She turned and went slowly into the house. Bob yawned and sat down on
the lower step, where he humped over and rolled a cigaret. In a few
minutes, “Splinter” Martin waddled up from the corral. He sat down
heavily beside Bob and helped himself to Bob’s tobacco.
“I run across ‘Chet’ Gunning t’day,” said Splinter hoarsely. Splinter
always talked as if suffering from a severe cold.
“Thasso?” Bob showed little interest.
“Over by Singin’ Angel Flats,” explained Splinter. “Me and him had a
little talk.”
“Yuh would,” nodded Bob. “Chet ain’t none secretive.”
“I reckon he’s right, at that,” grunted Splinter. “’F I was the sheriff
I’d ’a’ found it out long before this.”
“Oh, yuh would, would yuh?” exploded Bob. “I s’pose you knowed it all
the time, didn’t yuh? Now, that’s fine of yuh, Splint.”
“F’r gosh sake, what ails you?” croaked Splinter. “You don’t need t’
ride me, cowboy. Right’s right and don’t wrong nobody.”
“Don’t quarrel,” advised John Fann softly. “That does not mend matters,
boys. Splinter, you better wash up for supper.”
Splinter got up slowly and started for the rear of the house.
“And don’t forget that you’ve got two ears and a back to yore neck,”
added Bob.
Splinter stopped.
“Zasso? Huh!”
He waddled back, grasped Bob by the ears and looked him over closely.
“Well, well! I sure admire yuh, Robert Emmett Kern. I admires any man
who makes a discovery and immediate and soon passes out his information
to his friends. You ranks with some of our great discoverers, cowboy;
but I’d say you was jist a little more rank, at times.”
“Supper is ready, boys,” said Ma Fann from the doorway. “Have you
washed, Splinter?”
“No, ma’am--” quickly--“but I’ve had a lesson in it. Be right with yuh,
even if I dislocate m’ shoulders.”
Splinter went to the rear of the kitchen, placed the battered wash-basin
on a bench and poured some water from a five-gallon kerosene can, which
had been fitted with a bail. Noisily he washed his face and dried it on
a coarse towel.
He could hear Ma Fann singing softly as she placed the supper on the
table. It was an old church hymn, sung off-key, as if the singer’s
mind was far from in tune. Splinter listened, his eyes half-closed,
the rough towel held tightly in his two hands. He heard John Fann and
Bob Kern clump into the dining-room, the closing of the oven door, as
Ma Fann removed the biscuits. He picked up the wash-basin and slowly
poured out the soapy water.
“Gawd A’mighty made them two,” he said softly, meaning John and Ma
Fann. “He made ’em t’ look kinda like me and the rest of the folks,
but He must ’a’ took special pains, I reckon, ’cause they’ve got
somethin’--that--we--ain’t--got.”
He hung the battered wash-basin on the wall, picked up his hat and
went in through the kitchen door. Ma Fann was standing at the stove,
looking down at a pan of brown-topped biscuits, holding a plate in her
hand. Splinter stepped in beside her and she looked up at him. Quickly
she glanced toward the door which led into the dining-room, and then
her hand darted inside her waist and she handed Splinter a small kodak
picture.
It showed two little children, little chubby things, sitting on the
ground, looking up like two little robins at the approach of the
mother bird. Splinter’s face broke into a smile and he glanced at Ma
Fann. Tears were running down her cheeks, but her lips were drawn in
a hard line.
Splinter cleared his throat softly, gave her back the little picture and
patted her clumsily on the shoulder as he went into the dining-room.
“He must ’a’ washed his ears,” stated Bob loudly. “Look at the danged
pelican. Whatcha doing--cryin’, Splinter? You’ve got tears in yore
beautiful eyes, angel child.”
“Soap!” grunted Splinter, easing himself into a chair. “I’m gittin’
so danged clean that I wash m’ eyeballs. Got a good notion t’ build a
bath-tub, so we could take a good washin’ every month or so.”
“My gosh, yuh don’t need to go to extremes!” exclaimed Bob. “Just
because yuh washed yore neck and ears once, don’t go and get a lot of
dudish notions.”
* * * * *
There was little more said during supper. Splinter, who usually carried
the bulk of the conversation, was silent and thoughtful.
He and Bob Kern had been working for the JHF outfit for nearly three
years, and they knew the inside life of most of the Bunch Grass range
folk. There had been another cowboy working there when they came; a
wild-riding, hard-drinking, handsome young man, whose name was Barr
Wyeth. He was a good cow-hand, but he did not seem to fit in at the
JHF.
And then there had been Nell Fann, the daughter, a dark-haired,
dark-eyed, strong-willed girl of nineteen. And she had fallen in love
with Bob Kern. But Bob Kern did not have the broken nose and the one
unreliable eye at that time. That was a memento of a broken cinch and
an outlaw horse.
John and Ma Fann had smiled upon the engagement. They both swore by Bob
Kern, and John Fann had made his plans to turn the management of the
ranch over to Bob Kern. But when Bob had recovered from his accident--he
was not the same Bob Kern, outwardly. And who can say that any maid of
nineteen will believe that beauty is only skin deep?
Barr Wyeth was undeniably handsome. Range rumor linked his name with
Nell Fann, and John Fann had foolishly taken her to task for it. And
John Fann lost. A recital of Barr Wyeth’s failings only seemed to
enhance his few virtues to her, and inside of a week they had eloped.
Never by word nor deed had either John or Ma Fann showed that they were
broken-hearted over the match, but Nell had never come home--never had
seen her father and mother, except at a distance, possibly. But fortune
smiled upon Barr Wyeth. With the last few dollars he owned he won a
small stake at poker. Then he recklessly plunged into roulette until his
winnings went well into thousands. At midnight that night the gambling
house of Buck Kelly at Bunch Grass, known as the Buck Horn, closed its
games and announced that the house was broke.
Barr Wyeth had cleaned them out. With his winning he had bought the
Lightning ranch and brand and set himself up as a stock-man. The
Lightning ranch-house was located twelve miles from the JHF, and seven
miles from the town of Bunch Grass.
Barr Wyeth drank considerable and gambled at every opportunity, but
fortune only smiled upon him once. He hired two wild-riding cowpunchers,
Mark Ells and “Windy” Hart, whose monthly earnings went to swell the
exchequer of the several drink emporiums in Bunch Grass, or to those who
engineered the destinies of green-covered tables.
Many times had Barr Wyeth and John Fann met, but never did they speak
nor recognize each other in any way. Barr sneered at the mention of
John the Baptist, but the name of Barr Wyeth apparently meant nothing
to John Fann.
Then the JHF cattle began to disappear; began to dribble away. Bob and
Splinter had noticed it first and had told John Fann about it. He was
unconvinced, but after a few months he began to realize that unless
something was done the JHF brand would only remain on the iron itself.
Bob Kern had found the first clue--the track of a horse wearing a
bar-shoe. This horse had been used in the roping of a calf. There
was the remains of a small branding fire. There was nothing to show
that it was a JHF calf, but honest cattlemen are not in the habit of
roping and branding calves far out in the open range.
Bob had given his information to Splinter, and inside of a week they
had discovered the owner of that horse. It was Bob who had discovered
the horse and he had sworn Splinter to secrecy.
Then Splinter had found a yearling heifer wearing a blotted brand on the
right hip, while on the other hip was the jagged streak of the Lightning
brand, which had been burned on with a running-iron. The other brand had
been blotted entirely, but the blot was on the exact spot of the JHF
registry.
Again Bob swore Splinter to secrecy. There was still no absolute
evidence. A week later, Splinter found the evidence of another range
branding, and near the fire he found a hand-made bone hondo, on
which had been burned the initials B.W. A small piece of frayed rope
attached to the hondo showed that the weakened rope had broken and
the hondo been lost.
And with this evidence, Bob Kern had gone to John and Ma Fann.
Splinter had asked him to do it while he--Splinter--was not there.
It had been hard for Bob to do this. Down deep in his heart he still
loved Nell Wyeth, and little less was his love for John the Baptist
and Ma Fann, who was “Ma” to every cowpuncher the length and breadth
of the valley.
Neither of the old folks had expressed an opinion. He had simply stated
his evidence and they knew that he would not lie. Their daughter’s
husband was robbing them--had been robbing them for nearly a year.
“That is the evidence,” said Bob. “Shall I report it to the sheriff?”
“No,” said John Fann. “This shall be our secret, Bob.”
And that was why Bob Kern had said--“Rustlin’ is rustlin’, and it don’t
make no difference whether it’s me, or you, or the King of Siam--it’s
still rustlin’.”
After supper was over Bob and Splinter went to the bunk-house.
“You told ’em, didn’t yuh?” queried Splinter, as he removed his boots.
“Yeah.” Bob nodded slowly. “I told ’em, Splinter.”
“Did John get sore?”
“Like he always does. It must ’a’ hurt ’em both like ----, Splinter.
They didn’t say nothin’. Ma just kinda took hold of a post with both
hands, but John didn’t do nothin’ but look off across the hills. I
don’t reckon they was thinkin’ much about Barr Wyeth.”
Splinter shook his head.
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon they was, Bob. Ma showed me a picture of Nell’s
twins.”
“I seen it. ‘Pastry’ Pell swiped it at the Lightnin’ and brought it to
her.”
Pastry Pell was sort of a lazy cowboy who worked extra at the different
ranches, and had a habit of mixing in every one’s business.
“Goin’ t’ tell the sheriff, Bob?”
“Not if John has his way about it. He don’t want anybody t’ know,
but--aw----Splinter, suppose we was in his place?”
“A rustler’s a rustler, Bob,” reminded Splinter.
“Jist what I got through tellin’ him. But he won’t do anythin’. I reckon
the Lightnin’ can rustle every JHF cow on the Bunch Grass hills and John
the Baptist won’t say a word, on Nell’s account.”
“That’s right,” agreed Splinter, and then dolefully, “I--I wonder if I
talked too much t’day. Dawg-gone it, I met Chet Gunning and me and him
talked quite a little.
“He asked me how things was comin’ along, and I told him we’d likely
last six months longer. Kind of a fool remark t’ make, and he asks me
what I meant; so I told him that somebody was liftin’ JHF cows.
“He wanted t’ know how long this had been goin’ on and I told him. He
got kinda mad and wanted t’ know why John the Baptist hadn’t told him.
Then--” Splinter threw down his cigaret and ground out the lighted end
with the heel of his boot--“Then I told him about the yearlin’ with the
vented brand and the Lightnin’ put on with a runnin’-iron.”
“Uh-huh,” said Bob slowly, thoughtfully. “You told him about all there
was t’ know, didn’t yuh, Splinter?”
“Well, I never stopped t’ think how John would take it. I might ’a’
knowed I s’pose. Yuh don’t reckon Chet will start anythin’ on what I
told him, do yuh, Bob?”
“There’s an election in November,” said Bob meaningly, and then, “What
did Chet say?”
“He said it wasn’t givin’ a sheriff a square deal to keep things quiet
thataway. I told him he better talk it over with John, bein’ as it’s
John’s cows. We had quite an argument, and he said he’d come out and
talk with John.”
Bob yawned wearily and leaned back on his bunk. He was sorry that
Splinter had talked with Chet Gunning. Chet had never been friendly to
Barr Wyeth, and Bob knew that right now Barr Wyeth was working against
Gunning in the coming campaign.
Gunning was a man of about forty years of age, tall, dark, hawk-faced
and with a drooping, black mustache. He was known as a good shot, fast
on the draw and tireless in the saddle. Gunning was not a good “mixer,”
and many expressed surprize that he had been elected.
He was a single man and “batched” alone in a little shack at the
outskirts of Bunch Grass. Even his deputy, the genial, roly-poly Andy
Allard, had to confess that he had never become well acquainted with
the sheriff. But Gunning was efficient, ambitious and had made a good
officer.
And Bob Kern knew that Gunning would make trouble for Barr Wyeth. Not
that Wyeth did not have it coming to him, but Bob hated to be mixed up
in it, because it might look like he was working against the man who
had married his sweetheart.
* * * * *
It was the following morning, just after breakfast, when Chet Gunning
rode up to the porch of the JHF ranch-house and dismounted. John Fann
had watched his coming from within the house, but now he came out on
the porch and greeted the sheriff.
Splinter was down at the corral, but Bob had stayed at the
breakfast-table talking to Ma Fann. Bob heard John’s greeting to the
sheriff; so he picked up his hat and went to the front door. Gunning
was leaning against the side of the porch, talking to John Fann about
the interminable drouth when Bob came out.
“Howdy, Chet,” greeted Bob, “how’s crime?”
“Well--” the sheriff brushed some tobacco flakes off his shirt-front and
half-smiled--“it appears to be doin’ real well, Kern--if what I hear has
any truth in it.”
John Fann glanced quickly at Bob, as if wondering who had told the
sheriff, but Bob was calmly rolling a cigaret.
“Accordin’ to what I hear, there ain’t no mystery about it,” remarked
the sheriff slowly, “but I thought I’d have a little talk with John
Fann before I went ahead on the case.”
“I never was good at riddles, sheriff,” said John Fann, “so you had
better speak plainly.”
“Riddles?” The sheriff lifted his eyebrows, “I reckon you know what I
mean, John. Seems to me that the Lightnin’ has struck in the same place
more than once.”
“You’re doing the talking,” reminded John coldly.
“I sure am,” replied the sheriff, just a trifle nettled. “I reckon it’s
time for me to do a little talkin’, don’tcha think?”
“Perhaps I might answer that, if I knew what you mean, sheriff.”
“Aw, ----!” exploded Gunning. “You’ve had a lot of cattle stolen and
you’ve got enough evidence to send a certain party to the penitentiary,
haven’t yuh?”
“Have I?” John Fann seemed mildly surprized.
“Have yuh?” Gunning’s eyes snapped. “Well, haven’t yuh?”
“Did you come out here to find out if I have, or to tell me that I
have?”
“Well, ----!” Chet Gunning seemed at a loss to know what to say. “Now,
look here, John Fann. I reckon you’re tryin’ to shield Barr Wyeth, but
I’m ---- if the law don’t take it up in spite of you. Mebbe you don’t
care if the Lightnin’ steals yuh blind, but crime is crime, and I’m
goin’ to stop it; _sabe_?”
“Since when did the law hire you to ride herd on the JHF stock?” queried
Bob Kern easily, as he came down the steps and stopped near the sheriff.
“About the same time that it gave you the right to horn in on a
conversation that don’t concern yuh,” retorted the sheriff
sarcastically.
Bob grinned widely.
“Then I reckon we’re both talkin’ foolish, Gunning. Suppose you go
back and run yore office, while we runs the JHF, and mebbe we’ll all
do well.”
“Thasso?”
Gunning squinted critically at Bob. He knew that Bob would fight with
fists or guns, and that he was fairly adept with either. Gunning was
not looking for a fight; so he ignored Bob and turned to John Fann.
“I reckon I’ll just go ahead on what evidence I’ve got, John.”
“What evidence have you got?” queried John.
The sheriff hitched up his belt and looked around. Splinter was coming
up from the corral and the sheriff greeted him warmly.
“Hello, Martin. I was just checkin’ up on some of the things you told
me yesterday about the rustlin’ of the JHF stock. I reckon you had the
right idea.”
Splinter flushed slightly and looked at Bob, who was looking straight at
him. Splinter spat thoughtfully and knitted his brows.
“The things I told yuh, sheriff?” Splinter’s brow smoothed and he
grinned widely. “I reckon yore dreamin’, ain’t yuh? Yesterday? Why, I
ain’t seen yuh for a week.”
Gunning stared at him for a moment and then walked over to his horse.
He looked coldly at John Fann and Bob Kern and seemed about to speak,
but mounted his horse and rode stiffly down through the big gate and
headed down the road toward Bunch Grass.
* * * * *
Every city, every town and every community has its one certain eccentric
character, and Pastry Pell was the one which fate had dealt to Bunch
Grass. He was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, pasty of face,
colorless of eye and with protruding teeth, as yellow as dirty ivory.
His garb was as drab as his physique and personality; yet he was a
good cow-hand--when he would work, which was not often. He preferred
to meander about the range, eating here, sleeping there; tolerated,
but never welcome. He was unable to read or write, yet he had an
uncanny nose for news or scandal--preferably, scandal. He owned his
own horse, saddle and bridle, and carried his six-shooter shoved
inside the waistband of his trousers, where, on account of his lack
of avoirdupois, it hung precariously, threatening at any time to
become an inhabitant of the aforementioned trousers.
But a gun was of little use to Pastry, if you were willing to take
Pastry’s own words for it. He had hired out to the Double-Triangle at
round-up time, and the foreman had asked him about his outfit.
“I’ve got a bronc and a saddle and a bridle and a six-gun--the ----
thing.”
“What’s the matter with the gun? Ain’t it no good?” queried the boss.
“Yeah, it’s a good gun,” admitted Pastry. “It’s a ---- good gun, but
what the ---- good is it? I never see nothin’ to shoot.”
And it was Pastry Pell that Sheriff Chet Gunning met, as he dismounted
in front of his office in Bunch Grass. Pastry made it a point to visit
the office at irregular times, because he might hear something to tell
others about.
Sheriff Gunning knew Pastry very well. Also, Sheriff Gunning was in a
bad frame of mind, following his interview with the three men at the JHF
ranch. He knew there was nothing he could do, as long as John Fann
refused to admit theft. Splinter’s denial of their previous conversation
made the sheriff boil.
“Huh! You ain’t eatin’ right, sheriff,” was Pastry’s opening comment.
“What’s that?”
The sheriff turned from tying his horse and stared at Pastry.
“Stummick’s disorderly, that’s what she is,” declared Pastry with
conviction. “You ought to quit eatin’ meat f’r a while and stick to
vegi-tables.”
“Now, what in ---- are you talkin’ about?” demanded the sheriff.
“Jowls kinda yaller,” explained Pastry. “Eyes blood-shot. Yore either
sufferin’ from bad circ-lation, torpid liver, or--” Pastry considered
the sheriff closely--“somebody done somethin’ to git under yore skin.”
“Mm-m-yah!” snorted the sheriff and went into the office.
After a moment, which Pastry consumed in masticating a huge chew of
tobacco, he followed the sheriff inside.
The sheriff had seated himself at his desk and begun sorting some legal
papers, but now he looked up, a scowl on his face. But Pastry ignored
the scowl and sat down against the wall, while the sheriff considered
him for a space of time.
“Know who rides a horse that wears a bar-shoe?” asked the sheriff.
“Bar-shoe?” Pastry expectorated toward the door and nodded quickly.
“Barr Wyeth.”
“Hm-m-m!”
The sheriff squinted closely at Pastry for a moment and went back to
examining his papers.
“Why?” queried Pastry. The question had excited his natural curiosity.
“What about a bar-shoe?”