“Get off that horse, you coyote pup!”
Pastry lost no time in dismounting.
“Now, you stay here until I’m gone; _sabe_?” ordered Barr. “I ain’t
goin’ to have yuh packin’ a talk to Chet Gunning nor to John the
Baptist.”
“What’s gone wrong, Barr?” asked Windy.
“They’re brandin’ us a bunch of thieves--or rather, they’re brandin’ me
a thief, and I’m goin’ to vent that brand ---- quick!”
“Huh!” blurted Windy softly.
Barr whirled and hurried down to the corral, where he began saddling.
Windy and Mark exchanged glances. Pastry was standing beside his horse,
nursing a very sore face, and Mrs. Wyeth still braced herself against
the post, white-faced, sick at heart over it all.
From back in the house came the wailing of a child. A grasshopper
crackled its way past the house and a vagrant breeze stirred the
dusty foliage. Barr Wyeth mounted and rode straight out toward the
main highway, never looking back, and they watched him fade out in a
cloud of dust.
“Well, I gueth I can go now,” Pastry’s voice broke the stillness, and he
got painfully aboard his horse.
They watched him ride away, going slowly, feeling tenderly of his
battered face.
Mrs. Wyeth turned her eyes and looked at the two men.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon so,” replied Windy.
She turned wearily and went back into the house. For a moment the two
men looked at each other, and then they went straight to the corral,
saddled their horses and rode into the hills.
* * * * *
Buck Kelly, owner of the Buck Horn saloon and gambling-house, was not
a flashy type of gambler; rather he was a quiet dresser, quiet in his
conversation and drank little.
But he was a hard man to beat. He played shrewdly, without visible
emotion, and it was impossible to tell whether he was a hard loser or
not. He had come in from “Nowhere” and bought out the Southern saloon,
which he had renamed the Buck Horn.
Physically, Buck Kelly was only average. The lines of his square-cut
face were deeply graven, his lips thin, and his black hair slightly
tinged with gray. He loaned small amounts of money to the cowboys,
which insured their pay-day patronage, and was not averse to giving
them a liberal liquor credit.
But Buck Kelly, early in the game, showed that the Buck Horn was not a
brawling-hall. With his two hands he had whipped a pair of belligerent
cowboys. One of them had tried to draw a gun, but Kelly took it away
from him in a way that showed the crowd that Kelly knew a few good
tricks.
Then, just to show the crowd that he was not unfamiliar with the weapon
in his hand, he called their attention to a mineral-water lithograph on
the wall, which depicted a very lovely fairy-like female person, with a
flaming jewel for a head-dress. It was at least twenty feet away, but
without apparent aim, he obliterated the aforementioned jewel.
This served to establish Buck Kelly as a bad man to seek trouble with,
and gave him a standing with the hard-riding sons of the Bunch Grass
hills.
Barr Wyeth had left the Lightning with a very definite purpose in mind.
He was going to Bunch Grass and make Chet Gunning eat dirt. He was not
entirely free of the potations of the night before, and when he came in
sight of the drab, unpainted little town of Bunch Grass, after seven
miles of dusty road, he was less bloodthirsty than when he started.
He was still firm in his purpose, but his throat was very dry and his
nerves were badly in need of a stimulant. He had seen much red, but
now it had blended with morose reflections until it was almost indigo.
Therefore he headed for the hitch-rack in front of the Buck Horn and
lost no time in imbibing liquid cheer.
And not far behind him came Pastry Pell. He had managed to keep Barr
Wyeth in sight--or rather he had kept within what would have been
sight if Pastry had been able to see things in a normal way, which he
was not.
Pastry circled the town and entered the sheriff’s office by the rear
door. He found the sheriff standing in the front door, calmly surveying
the street. He had seen Barr Wyeth ride into town, and he had noted that
Barr rode with a rifle in a boot under his right saddle-fender. Now he
turned and squinted at Pastry Pell, who had halted near the center of
the room.
“For ----’s sake, what happened to you?” grunted the astonished sheriff.
Pastry’s face was not at all nice to look upon, as it had swelled
considerably.
“Thed too much,” lisped Pastry painfully.
“Oh!” The sheriff did not need any explanation.
“And he cometh down here to thoot you--Wyeth,” explained Pastry thickly.
“Thed he wath.”
“Thasso?”
The sheriff glanced back up the street and walked up to Pastry.
“Pell, you’re a ---- of a lookin’ thing. Did Barr Wyeth do this to you?”
“Yeth,” simply.
“I suppose you went out there and told a lot of ---- lies, like you
usually do, didn’t yuh? Some day you’ll get enough sense to keep your
mouth shut.”
“That day ith today,” declared Pastry solemnly. “If I knowed that the
earth wath comin’ to an end, I’d keep my mouth thut.”
There was no doubt but what Pastry was thoroughly in earnest, and the
sheriff smiled grimly.
“So Barr Wyeth has come down here to shoot me, eh?”
“Yeth,” nodded Pastry quickly. “And ath thoon ath that ith over he thed
he wath goin’ after John the Baptith.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the sheriff absently. “He might, at that.”
“You goin’ to arretht him?” asked Pastry.
“Arrest him? What for? Because he came down here to shoot me? Or because
he beat you up?”
“No thir, but becauth he ith a rustler.”
“I ain’t got no evidence that he’s a rustler, Pastry.”
“No evidenth?”
Pastry swallowed hard and felt tenderly of his swollen eyes.
“Not a ---- bit!” exclaimed the sheriff.
“Then,” said Pastry slowly, “you ain’t got a lot more thense than I
have. I think you better thwear off today too--like I did. You thed
too much to me and when I thed what you thed----”
“I reckon you’re right,” interrupted the sheriff, “but I’ll be lucky to
get off with only a busted face.”
“If you think thith ith luck,” Pastry patted a swollen lip, which
protruded like the bill of a duck, “you muth have a ---- of an idea
of mithfortune.”
* * * * *
After the sheriff had ridden away from the JHF ranch, Bob Kern and
Splinter saddled their horses and rode away toward Comanche Cañon.
John Fann and his wife sat down on the porch and deliberated over the
situation.
“It’s going to mean trouble, Ma.” John Fann shook his head sadly. “Not
trouble for us, but for----”
“Barr Wyeth is hot-headed, John. Even if you would not prosecute him,
there is still--disgrace.”
“And disgrace means a killing in this country, Ma.”
“I wonder if Barr needed the money so badly that he stole to get it? He
drinks and gambles.”
John Fann got slowly to his feet and picked up his hat. “I’m going to
the Lightning ranch, Ma.”
“To see Barr Wyeth? John, he hates you so badly?” Ma Fann did not want
to see him go.
“Yes, he hates me,” agreed John softly. “I think he has taught Nell to
hate me, too. I suppose it is my reward for trying to interfere in their
marriage.”
“But what can you do--what good can you do in talking to Barr Wyeth,
John?”
“I don’t know, Ma. Sometimes I wonder why he is so bitter toward us. Why
have we never seen Nell?”
Ma Fann turned away. She too had heard some of the things that Barr
Wyeth had said against them; things for which there was no reason. It
was true that neither of them was in favor of her marriage to Barr
Wyeth, but they had calmly bowed to the inevitable.
“I don’t know what time I’ll be back, Ma,” stated John. “I’ll cut across
the hills, and maybe I’ll go to town on my way back.”
It was only about seven miles across the hills to the Lightning ranch,
and John Fann rode into the ranch-house yard about fifteen minutes after
Pastry Pell had ridden away, following Barr Wyeth to Bunch Grass.
Nell Wyeth was standing in the doorway, staring off across the hills
as he rode up. It was the first time he had ever come to her home--the
first time she had ever been face to face with him since her marriage.
For a long time they looked at each other, and then--
“Where is your husband?”
John’s voice was husky.
“What do you want of him?”
Her voice was barely audible, and she walked slowly out toward him. He
looked down at her from his horse, but said nothing.
“What do you want of him?” she repeated anxiously now, and her voice was
husky.
“I want to talk with him, Nellie,” softly. She shook her head quickly.
“Don’t try to talk with him. You know how he feels toward you--how he
has always felt toward you, after the things you have said about us--and
he’s ten times worse now.”
“After the things I have said about you,” repeated John Fann slowly.
“What things, Nellie?”
Mrs. Wyeth shook her head.
“Too many things to remember.”
“Too many to remember,” repeated John slowly. “I don’t think I
understand. What could I say against you?”
“That’s just it. Just because you did not want me to marry Barr, you
have said these things, I suppose. I have managed to make Barr ignore
everything, but now--” She turned and looked down the dusty road toward
town--“Now, he has gone to Bunch Grass, and I think he is going to make
serious trouble.”
“I think I understand,” said John patiently. “More talk.”
“More lies, you mean!”
“I hope so, Nellie.”
“And they started at the JHF ranch, too!” indignantly.
“Yes, I think they did.”
“And Bob Kern had a hand in it,” declared the woman heatedly. “He has
been a dog-in-the-manger ever since I married Barr Wyeth. Oh, I’ve heard
the things he has said.”
John Fann stared down at her and a sad smile creased his eyes.
“If Bob Kern has mentioned your name, it has been in his prayers,
Nellie.”
“Is that so? Well, it wasn’t in his prayers when he said that he would
drive Barr Wyeth out of the Bunch Grass range and make me sorry that I
ever turned him down because he had a crooked face.”
“No, that don’t sound like a prayer--nor like Bob Kern. I will try to
find Barr Wyeth in town.”
And without saying good-by, John Fann turned his horse around and rode
toward town on his big, gray horse, while the woman leaned against the
side of the porch and stared after him, her eyes filled with sorrow. She
wanted to call after him, but she bit her lips and stifled the impulse.
Perhaps, she thought, Bob Kern might be right after all. The Lightning
outfit was just about at the end of its rope. Drink and the green cloth
had taken its toll of the outfit, and Bob had told her a few days before
that he would probably lose the ranch. [see Transcriber’s note at end of
text]
Then the suspicion suddenly struck her. Was Bob stealing cattle to
try to recoup his losses? If he was, his enmity toward the JHF would
naturally cause him to take their stock in preference to any other.
Pastry Pell had said that there was a yearling which had been
misbranded with the Lightning mark.
She went slowly into the living-room and sank down in a chair. The wife
of a cattle-thief! If anything happened to Barr, what would become of
her? And Bob Kern had said--but what had Bob Kern to do about it? There
were the babies--the twins. And Bob had sworn that he was going to “get”
the sheriff and John the Baptist. He was going to kill them.
She sprang out of her chair and ran to the bedroom. The twins were
peacefully sleeping--two tiny little bundles of humanity. For a moment
she debated, looking at them nervously, then she closed the door, ran
swiftly out of the house and down to the barn, where she began saddling
her own horse. She was going to try to overtake her father and warn
him.
* * * * *
Barr Wyeth did not drink wisely but he drank well--and alone, which
was not at all like Barr Wyeth. Buck Kelly noticed this and tried to
draw Barr into conversation, but without much success.
“You ain’t drinkin’ on a bet, are you?” queried Buck.
“On a bet?” growled Barr. “Whatcha mean?”
“You’ve had seven glasses of liquor in ten minutes, Barr.”
“What if I have?” Barr grew instantly belligerent, but Buck moved away
and grew interested in a poker game.
“What business is it of his?” demanded Barr of the drink dispenser.
“Tell me that, will yuh? How ---- old does a feller have to be to know
what he wants? Huh?”
Barr surveyed the place, eyes half-closed.
“I just want to tell everybody that I’m of age and that I do as I ----
please. There’s too many people around here that are tryin’ to run my
business, and I’m tellin’ yuh all here and now that I’m tired of it;
_sabe_?”
“Nobody tryin’ to run you, Barr,” assured Buck. “Go right ahead and get
your skin filled with hooch. There’s a bunk in the back room, when yuh
get so yuh can’t stand up to drink.”
“Is--that--so?”
Barr spaced his words carefully and his right hand dropped close to
the butt of his holstered gun. One of the men shoved back from the
poker table and left his cards where they had fallen in that deal. He
was taking no chances.
Buck Kelly did not move. He knew that Barr was dangerous. Came the
sound of a step at the door and Barr’s eyes flashed sideways to see
Chet Gunning, the sheriff, watching him closely.
“Don’t move, Barr.”
The sheriff’s voice was coldly conversational. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to
hurt yuh--if yuh don’t move.”
He walked up slowly, took Barr’s gun from the holster and handed it over
to the bartender.
“Fangs all pulled nice and pretty,” observed the sheriff. “Now yuh can
move, Barr.”
Barr turned and looked at the sheriff, who had stepped back. Barr’s
lips showed like a white scar, and the muscles of his jaws stuck out
like knotted ropes, but he knew that he was helpless now and might as
well make the best of it.
“I’ll thank Pell when I see him,” said Barr thickly. “Let’s have a
drink.”
But no one came up to the bar. The bartender handed out the bottle, and
Barr poured out a drink. He looked back over his shoulder, but no one
was paying any attention to him.
“Nobody wants to drink with a cow-thief,” said Barr bitterly, leaning
across the bar and looking at his reflection in the mirror.
He lifted his glass and laughed harshly.
“Here’s how, you ---- thief!”
He started to take his drink, but the glass halted at his lips. John
the Baptist was coming in the door. Quick as a flash, Barr dropped his
glass, grasped the heavy bottle, whirled around and flung it straight
at the old man’s head.
Came the thud of the impact, the crash of breaking glass, as the bottle
hit the floor, and John the Baptist went down in a heap, almost blocking
the doorway.
And before any one could stop him, Barr Wyeth sprang over him and went
out of the door, tore his horse away from the hitch-rack and headed for
home in a cloud of dust.
Buck Kelly was the first man to reach John Fann’s side and he swore with
relief when he saw that the bottle had struck the old man a glancing
blow on the forehead, tearing and bruising the skin, instead of making a
solid impact, which most surely would have crushed his skull.
“An inch further to the left and no law on earth would save Barr Wyeth,”
said one of the men, as they helped John Fann into a chair and bathed
his forehead.
“That sure is some caress to git from a son-in-law,” observed a grizzled
cow-man seriously, proffering a none too clean handkerchief to use as a
bandage.
Pastry Pell came in and became an interested spectator, and the men
looked curiously at his battered countenance.
“My gosh, you must ’a’ been fightin’!” exclaimed one of the men.
Pastry shook his head.
“No, thir--not me.”
“That’s Barr Wyeth’s trade-mark,” said the sheriff.
“Why did he call himself a cow-thief?” queried the grizzled cow-man. “I
don’t _sabe_ that, Chet.”
“Booze talk,” said Kelly quickly. “Too much booze.”
John Fann was recovering now. His eyes opened and he looked up at the
ring of faces around him.
“Feel better, John?” asked the sheriff.
John nodded and got to his feet. He was a trifle unsteady as he felt of
his bandaged head, but he smiled and nodded.
“Yes, I think I am all right again.”
“You had a ---- close call,” observed Kelly.
“And Barr Wyeth never stopped to see whether it was just a close call or
a cinch,” added the sheriff. “Right now he thinks he killed you, John.”
“Probably be dithappointed when he finds out that he didn’t,” observed
Pastry lispingly.
“You talk too ---- much!” snapped the sheriff, and Pastry nodded quickly
in agreement, which brought a laugh from the crowd.
“Kelly, can I have a little talk with you?” asked John.
“Sure yuh can, John. Come back to my room.”
The old man walked unsteadily, as if still dazed from the blow, but
followed Kelly to his room at the rear of the saloon. Kelly motioned
him to a chair and sat down on the edge of the cot.
“I want to talk with you about Barr Wyeth, Kelly,” said John Fann
wearily.
His hand trembled as he smoothed his white beard, which was now streaked
with blood.
“All right, John.” Kelly nodded and bit the end off a fresh cigar. “Go
ahead.”
“Do you think that Barr would steal?”
“Well, that’s a hard question, John. I heard him call himself a thief
today--a cow-thief, I think.”
“He was drunk today,” said John slowly, as if trying to excuse the
statement. “Drunk and mad, I guess. My cows are being stolen, Kelly;
and the guilt points at Barr Wyeth.”
“Enough evidence for an arrest, John?”
“The law requires too little evidence, Kelly. It is easy to secure an
arrest; not difficult to get a conviction. Acquittal does not mean
exoneration. No, the law is not fair. All men may be equal before the
court, but the process of law, the juggling of lawyers--no, I do not
care to talk of evidence, Kelly.”
“And they are your cows, John.”
“Yes, my cows.”
“Why would Barr Wyeth steal your cows?”
“Kelly--” John the Baptist leaned forward and looked the gambler
straight in the eyes--“Barr Wyeth must be badly in debt. Cards and
drink will eat up any business, and the Lightning never was a rich
ranch. I think that Barr stole to try and pay his debts.”
Kelly laughed and considered the tip of his cigar.
“Then why don’t he pay ’em, John?”
The old man shook his head sadly. He knew that Barr must owe Buck Kelly
a lot of money, and Buck should be in a position to know if Barr was
making any attempt to pay off his debts.
“Kelly, will you take a mortgage on my ranch?” John Fann did not look at
Kelly as he spoke.
“Your ranch--the JHF?”