“Yes, my ranch.”
“Why--I dunno.”
Kelly stretched and chewed rapidly on his cigar.
“How big a mortgage, John?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Kelly stopped chewing his cigar and stared at the old man.
“Yuh ain’t aimin’ to pay Barr Wyeth’s debts, are yuh?”
“Five thousand isn’t much on the JHF, Kelly.” John Fann ignored Kelly’s
question.
“No, that’s a fact--nor much toward Barr Wyeth’s debts.” John stared at
Kelly curiously.
“You don’t mean that Barr owes more than that.”
“Barr Wyeth won the price of the Lightning ranch from me,” said Kelly
slowly. “He should have quit gambling.”
John Fann humped a little lower in his chair and his great gnarled hands
seemed to fairly dig into his overall-clad knees. His eyes were nearly
closed, and Kelly thought for a moment that the old man was suffering
from the blow on his temple, but he lifted his head and looked at Kelly.
“I’ve heard you say that you would like to own a ranch, Kelly; what will
you give me for the JHF?”
Kelly laughed.
“Buy your ranch, John? Why, the JHF is the best ranch in Bunch Grass
valley, man. Do you mean that you would sell out to pay the debts of
Barr Wyeth? Give up your hard-earned money to--say, John the Baptist,
you’re crazy! What would you do? Do you think that Barr would ever pay
you back--that he would take you and your wife in and keep yuh? ----,
you make me tired!”
“No,” John shook his head. “I do not expect much from Barr Wyeth.
Neither does he expect much from me; so we might both be surprized,
Kelly. Me and Ma are getting old--don’t need much.
“It has been a hard year for the cattle. The JHF has suffered with
the rest--maybe more--and what’s left on this range are pretty blamed
thin. We haven’t shipped any beef this year, Kelly; and you know what
that means. I’ve managed to keep Bob and Splinter.”
“Still, the JHF is a good ranch, John.”
“Yes, a--good--ranch.”
“And you want to sell it to pay Barr Wyeth’s debts?”
“Perhaps,” the old man smiled wearily, “I need money for myself, Kelly.”
Kelly snorted audibly and humped over, examining his finger-nails, as he
considered the proposition. Then:
“John, I haven’t a lot of money. My business is almost as uncertain as
the weather, but I’ve got about eight thousand dollars. Suppose I take
a mortgage for that amount. The JHF is worth a lot more than that, but
if you ever obligate yourself for more than that amount, somebody is
going to take away your home.”
“Thank you, Kelly. I--I guess it will be enough.”
“Too ---- much!” growled Kelly. “I’ll have the papers made out, John.
You come tomorrow morning and I’ll have the money for you.”
John Fann got to his feet and turned to the door.
“Kelly, I am trusting you to keep this quiet.”
“Well--” Kelly laughed shortly--“I’m just as ashamed of it as you are,
John. I think I know Barr Wyeth better than you do.”
“And yet,” John Fann paused with the door half-open, “it was written
long ago, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’”
He closed the door softly. Pastry Pell was at the wash-stand, washing
his swollen face, and he nodded to John Fann, but the old man was too
deep in thought even to see him. Pastry grinned at himself in the
cracked mirror and felt tenderly of his puffed lips.
* * * * *
And the sheriff was right when he said that Barr Wyeth thought he had
killed John Fann. He had spurred out of Bunch Grass, dazed, fighting
mad and half-drunk, but above all his whirling emotions came the
soul-shrinking fact that he was a murderer.
Without warning, without giving the old man a chance in the world, he
had killed him. There was no alibi, no defense in the world would save
him. He tried to think calmly, and the thought smote him, that he had
gone to town with murder in his heart. He had announced his intentions
of killing Chet Gunning and John the Baptist.
Some one was coming down the road toward him, riding in a cloud of dust.
Through dazed eyes he saw that it was his wife, and he mechanically drew
his horse to a stop. She was close to him now, her face tear-stained,
her eyes wide and inquiring. The dust from their horses’ feet eddied up
around them, blurring their faces.
“I killed your father.”
Barr Wyeth’s voice sounded like the voice of a ventriloquist’s dummy,
thin and unreal.
“You killed him,” said the woman in a flat voice, as if admitting the
truth. “You said you would, you know.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Barr wearily, slowly. “I remember that
I said it--a--long--time--ago.”
They stared at each other through the dust. The woman brushed a hand
across her face, across her eyes, as if to wipe away the things that
were before her. Then she turned her horse slowly around and started
back toward the ranch. Barr Wyeth looked after her for a moment and
then followed in her wake.
He was sober now and no longer dazed. No jury in the valley would ever
acquit him, the evidence was all against him. He remembered that Windy,
Mark and Pastry Pell were present when he had said he was going to “get”
the sheriff and John the Baptist.
He felt sure that Pastry had told the sheriff and that the sheriff had
disarmed him for that reason. It was a case of premeditated murder;
murder in the first degree, punishable by hanging. He wondered if it
would be worth while for him to go into the hills and take a chance on
getting away. The whole valley would be against him.
Suddenly he wondered if he had really killed John Fann. His soul
clutched at the thought, but he shook his head. The bottle had been
nearly full of liquor; a heavy glass bottle, and he had thrown it
with every ounce of his strength. No, it must have crushed the old
man’s skull like an egg-shell, he thought.
It was a long way home for Barr Wyeth. Ahead of him rode his wife,
looking into a blurred future for herself and the twin babies. Barr
did not try to ride with her. He had hated John the Baptist, and just
now, for the first time, he fully realized that John the Baptist was
his wife’s father.
“Why did I hate him so?” wondered Barr. “The things he said about
me--that was the reason. Yes, that was it. I killed him for the things
he had said about me. He didn’t want me to marry Nell, but I fooled him.
He said things about me and I killed him for saying those things.”
Two riders were coming down the slope of a hill ahead of him, and now
they came down onto the road. It was Mark Ells and Windy Hart, heading
toward Bunch Grass. Both of them spoke to Mrs. Wyeth as they passed
her, but she did not look up.
Both of them drew rein, as if to speak to Barr Wyeth, but he did not
stop nor speak to them. He did not want to talk to any one. It seemed
so useless to talk to any one now. They watched him ride away toward
the ranch and looked curiously at each other.
“Can yuh beat that, Windy?” queried Mark Ells.
“Nope--yuh can’t even tie it,” declared Windy. “Barr was a whoopin’ wolf
when he left, but somethin’ has sure shrunk his howl a heap. Might be
worth findin’ out.”
Mark grinned widely and they rode on toward town.
* * * * *
Buck Kelly did a lot of high-powered thinking after John Fann went out.
He swore softly to himself over the whole deal, but mostly at John Fann
for being such a fool. Then he lit a fresh cigar, picked up his hat and
went in search of the sheriff.
He found him in his office, and lost no time in telling him what John
Fann proposed to do. The sheriff listened in evident disapproval.
“I ain’t got a lot of use for John the Baptist, but I’m danged if I like
to see him throwin’ money away on Barr Wyeth,” declared the sheriff. “I
don’t think there’s any doubt but what Barr has been stealin’ cows from
the JHF.”
“And the ---- old fool is goin’ to hock his ranch to pay Barr’s debts,”
growled Kelly. “As far as the investment is concerned, I can’t lose.”
“You’ve got a mortgage on the Lightning, haven’t yuh?” asked the
sheriff.
“No, but I’ve got enough of Wyeth’s notes to cover the whole works.”
“And if Barr does get that money from John the Baptist, and does pay his
bills, he’ll be payin’ it to you.”
“Sure,” nodded Kelly. “It’ll be a case of shiftin’ the debt to an old
man and an old lady.”
“And Barr Wyeth will never pay it back, Kelly. You’ve got to refuse to
give it to him.”
Kelly laughed and shook his head.
“If he don’t get it from me, he’ll get it from somebody else, Chet.”
The sheriff stared down at his toes, a frown between his eyes, but he
suddenly looked up and leaned close to Kelly.
“Buck, this ain’t a square deal to let the old man do a thing like this,
don’tcha know it? Will you back me up in a ---- fool proposition?”
“What is it?” smiled Kelly.
“You’re payin’ him that money tomorrow morning. If he’s alone--” The
sheriff hesitated--“Kelly, we’ve got to take a chance on him being
alone and going home with the money. If he does, I’ll hold him up as
he comes up through the cañon, and I’ll take that money.
“I’ll give it back to you, Kelly. There’ll be ---- raised, but we’ll set
pat; _sabe_? I’ll wear a mask and do it all up proper. We’ll let the old
man think he’s a big loser, but he won’t be. Do yuh stand behind me in
this?”
Kelly laughed and nodded.
“Chet, I’m with yuh. But for gosh sake, do it right. If you get caught
it’ll look bad.”
“Who’ll catch me? Andy Allard is laid up with a sore tooth. It’s a
cinch, if the old man is alone. I don’t think he’ll go to the Lightnin’
from here--not after Barr hittin’ him the way he did.”
“It’s a ---- of a note when the sheriff turns highwayman to keep another
man from payin’ his debts,” grinned Kelly.
“Accordin’ to law, Kelly,” nodded the sheriff, “but I’m goin’ outside
the law, and I’m bettin’ she works.”
“---- help us, if it don’t, Chet--Bunch Grass jurors won’t.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Wyeth rode straight to the ranch-house, where she dismounted and
went inside. Barr followed her into the bedroom, where he found her on
her knees beside the bed, her face buried in a pillow. The babies were
awake and they stared up at him with wondering eyes.
The twins had never meant much to him before. He wanted to say something
to his wife, to try to console her, but what could he say to her now, he
wondered? Then he backed out of the room and took the horses down to the
corral.
For a while he considered taking his swiftest horse and escaping into
the hills, but decided against it. Then he went back to the ranch-house
and sat down on the porch to wait for the sheriff.
The sun was setting behind the Medicine Men peaks, and the road to Bunch
Grass was fading out in the mist of evening. Barr’s eyes were watching
the road; watching for the coming of the sheriff and his posse. Darkness
comes swiftly after sunset, but still Barr Wyeth waited.
His wife came out of the doorway and sat down on the porch, but she
did not speak. He looked at her, but her face was only a white blur in
the dim light. He knew that she was waiting, too. Then, out of the dim
distance came the dark bulk of riders and turned in at the gate.
“They’re comin’,” said Barr Wyeth softly.
But the riders moved on to the corral, where they began to unsaddle;
blurred misshapen figures.
“It’s Mark and Windy,” said Barr in a flat voice.
To Barr, it seemed hours that they consumed in unsaddling. Then they
went into the bunk-house, and in a few moments later there came the
yellow glow of their oil lamp. Then the door shut, cutting off the
light.
“Good God, why don’t they come up here?” breathed Barr wonderingly, and
it was more a prayer than an imprecation.
“What is the use?” asked Mrs. Wyeth.
Then the bunk-house door opened and one of the men came slowly up to the
porch. It was Windy. He stopped and appeared to be looking at the house,
as if wondering why there were no lights. Then he discovered them on the
porch and came up closer.
“I was jist wonderin’ if you’d gone away,” he said apologetically.
“No, I didn’t go away,” said Barr thickly.
“I didn’t see no lights,” explained Windy, and then hesitated for a
moment before he said, “I--me and Mark was jist wonderin’ if you’d do
us a favor, Barr.”
“A favor? What do you mean, Windy?”
“Well,” Windy laughed shortly, “last night Mark got sore and tore up our
deck of cards, and I was wonderin’ if you’ve got an old deck you’d loan
us.”
“A--a deck of cards?” parroted Barr. “Why, I--I----”
“I’ll find one,” said Mrs. Wyeth.
She went into the house and came out in a moment with the cards, which
she handed to Windy.
“What’s new in town?” Barr asked nervously.
“Deader’n a nail.”
“Wh-what?”
“Bunch Grass allus is dead,” said Windy. “Thank yuh for the cards.”
He turned and started back, but Barr stopped him.
“Windy, did you see John Fann?”
“Yeah, I seen him.” Windy hesitated for a moment. “The bartender said he
was chargin’ you up with a quart of hooch and a new bottle.”
“But--but John Fann--” faltered Barr weakly.
“I dunno whether he’s sore or not, Barr. It’s a good thing yuh didn’t
hit him square. I’ll git yuh a new deck of cards next time I go to town.
Good night.”
They watched him go back to the bunk-house and the door closed behind
him.
“Barr,” said Mrs. Wyeth softly, and her voice broke to a sob, “Barr, you
ought to get down on your knees and thank God.”
“I suppose so,” said Barr weakly, “but I’d likely make a mess of prayer,
like I have everythin’ else.”
* * * * *
It was the following morning at breakfast that Bob Kern and Splinter
Martin saw John Fann’s bandaged head. They had ridden in late and had
not bothered Ma Fann for supper. Neither of them mentioned it, as they
knew that John Fann would tell them, if he cared to have them know.
But John Fann evidently did not care to tell them, and their curiosity
naturally increased.
Ma Fann looked as if she had passed a sleepless night, but tried to be
cheerful during the meal.
“We circled Comanche Cañon yesterday,” volunteered Bob, “and we made a
pretty close count. There ain’t over two hundred head of cows on that
end of the range.”
John Fann nodded thoughtfully.
“Betcha there ain’t over eight hundred JHF’s on the whole blamed range,”
observed Splinter, as he balanced a piece of ham on his knife-blade,
“and we had a tally of thirteen hundred and sixty-eight this Spring.”
John Fann stared at the table, as he slowly stirred his coffee.
“Bob,” he said thoughtfully, “how long would it take you and Splinter to
throw all the stock onto the home ranch?”
“Eh?”
Bob dropped his fork and it clattered to the floor. He picked it up and
squinted sharply at John.
“Round ’em all up and throw ’em in here?”
“Yes, Bob.”
“Why--” Bob stared at Splinter and shook his head wonderingly--“Why, I
reckon we could do it in a week.”
“A week?” repeated John Fann slowly. “Well, I guess you can go ahead,
Bob. Throw all you can in the horse pasture; there’s plenty of water
there.”
He got up from the table, picked up his hat and went out of the room.
They heard him clump down the front steps and go toward the stable. Ma
Fann was standing at the stove, her back toward the boys, and Bob went
over to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around.
“Ma, what does it mean?” he asked.
She shook her head and her eyes filled up with tears.
“Aw, gosh A’mighty,” muttered Bob. “F’r gosh sake, Ma, don’t cry!
Here--” he drew a chair from beside the table and gently forced her
to sit down. “Now, tell us about it.”
She wiped her tears away with her apron and shook her bowed head.
“He is going to sell all the stock. There was a man in Pine City who
made him a flat offer a short time ago, but the price was so low that
John wouldn’t take it. Now, he is going to sell out. He has given a
mortgage on the ranch--on--the--old--JHF.”
“Aw ----!” blurted Splinter. “A mortgage on--say, this is the best
darned ranch----”
“I didn’t know he needed the money so bad,” said Bob mournfully. “Me and
Splinter have been takin’ forty a month a-piece, and we didn’t need it,
Ma. Why didn’t he say he was pinched thataway?”
Ma Fann wiped away her tears and got to her feet.
“Well, we couldn’t winter all that stock, anyway. If it should be a hard
winter, with the range in bad shape, we would have to buy hay.”
Splinter walked to a window and watched John Fann ride down the road
toward Bunch Grass while Bob leaned against the wall and rolled a
cigaret so thoughtlessly that he wasted half a package of tobacco.
“Then, I reckon, me and Splinter will have to rustle new jobs, Ma,” he
observed sadly.
Ma Fann sighed and turned back to her pans.
“Mebbe,” said Splinter hopefully, “mebbe somethin’ will turn up.”
“Yeah, tha’s right,” nodded Bob. “Don’tcha worry, Ma. C’m on, Splint;
we’ve gotta job ahead of us.”
They took their hats and went softly out of the house. Ma Fann looked
after them tearfully. It would be like losing her own sons, and her
heart echoed Splinter’s hope that something might turn up. She knew
why John Fann was selling out his stock, putting a mortgage on the
ranch, but she would not tell Bob and Splinter.
The two cowboys saddled up and rode into the hills. Their hearts were
not in the work, and there was little conversation. They traveled slowly
along the ridges, working back into the breaks. There were few cattle in
sight. Then Bob Kern drew rein on a ridge and considered the outlook.
“Splinter, let’s swing back and clean up the range between Bunch Grass
and the ranch. We’ll clean out this bunch when we herd in from Antelope
Creek, and I don’t feel like tacklin’ Antelope today. Whatcha say?”
“Suits me,” agreed Splinter. “It ain’t noways a job that I relish, Bob.
Dang it all, I wish I knowed some way to help John the Baptist. Who do
yuh reckon hit him? Or was it an accident, do yuh suppose?”
“It wasn’t no accident,” declared Bob. “They’d ’a’ told about it, if it
had been.”
“I’d like to meet the son-of-a-gun that hit him, Bob.”
“You’d have ---- little to do but to clean up the mess, if I found out
first,” said Bob savagely. “If the JHF was owned by anybody else, I’d
’a’ helped bust up that ---- Lightnin’ outfit long ago. They’ll keep on
liftin’ cows until I forget who I’m workin’ for.”
“Well, gosh all Friday, you ain’t the only one what is workin’ for the
JHF,” reminded Splinter. “Any time yuh feel like startin’ somethin’,
lemme know. Any old time you forget who yo’re workin’ for--I’m
forgettin’, too.”
They turned and rode slowly back down the slopes, where the dry grass
and brush crackled like tissue under their horses’ hoofs. Beyond them
stretched the rolling hills, yellowed and browned and traversed by
cattle trails. Farther beyond was the dark line of the Lost Horse
River, which angled the length of the valley, and beyond that was the
Medicine Men range, harsh and black in the sunlight.
Slowly they drifted around the heads of the cañons, coming nearer and
nearer to the road which led from the JHF to Bunch Grass; a road that
twisted its way through a narrow cañon, after leaving the flat country
and opened out again before reaching the JHF ranch-house.
Suddenly Bob Kern reined his horse and leaned forward, listening.
“Thought I heard a shot,” he remarked.
“Well,” Splinter smiled indulgently, “is it anythin’ strange that we
might hear a shot?”
Bob’s dusty face broke into a grin.
“No, that’s a fact. I reckon I’m kinda jumpy, and I never stopped t’
think.”
They moved along, skirting the edge of the cañon above the road, going
slowly. Finally they came out on the rim, where they could see the road
far below them. There were two horses standing close together--two
saddled horses.
Just beyond them appeared to be a dark mass beside the road, which might
be a man.
“What do yuh reckon is goin’ on down there?” queried Bob.
“Say, that looks like John Fann’s big gray bronc, don’t it? Ain’t that a
man----”
Splinter stopped. One of the dark objects was a man. He appeared to get
up from his knees and went quickly over to the horses. He mounted and
rode swiftly toward town.
“There’s another man there!” grunted Bob. “There beside the road--that
dark spot.”
“And that’s John Fann’s horse, or I’m a liar!” exclaimed Splinter. “Yuh
don’t suppose that anythin’----”
But Bob had whirled his horse and was riding madly down the cañon rim,
looking for a place to descend into the cañon. Splinter spurred after
him. A short distance beyond, Bob whirled his horse over the edge and
went angling and sliding down the steep hill, his horse fairly sitting
down to keep from somersaulting, while close behind him came Splinter,
ignoring the laws of gravity in his hurry to reach the road.
And they found John Fann lying beside the road, with a bullet in his
head; his hair and beard gory with blood, but still alive.
“Good ----!” exclaimed Bob after a hasty examination. “He was shot from
behind!”
The bullet had struck him back of his left ear and ranged upward.
“But he ain’t dead?” queried Splinter anxiously.
“No, but he ain’t a long ways from it. Poor Ma. This will about kill
her, Splinter.”
“Who was the man who just left here?” demanded Splinter. “He’s the snake
we’re after, Bob! Didja see what he looked like? What kind of a bronc
was he ridin’?”
Bob shook his head.
“I dunno, Splint. Dark colored horse, but I ain’t got no idea who the
rider was. Yuh can’t tell nothin’--lookin’ down on him thataway.”
“But he’s headin’ toward town, Bob. One of us has got to stay here with
John, while the other goes after a doctor and to try and find out who
shot him.”
“I’ll go, Splinter; and ---- help that man, if I find him! You stay
here.”
And before Splinter could protest, Bob vaulted into his saddle and was
racing off down the road toward Bunch Grass. The other rider had had at
least ten minutes start of Bob, and Bob was not sure but what this man
had seen them on the cañon rim. There were innumerable places where
this man could swing off the road and let him go past, but Bob did not
hesitate. He wanted the doctor first of all.
It was over three miles to Bunch Grass, but Bob did not slacken speed.
Behind him streamed a cloud of yellow dust, like the smoke screen of a
destroyer going into action. And Bob rode with a six-shooter clutched
in his right hand, praying that he might catch sight of the man who had
ridden away from John Fann.
But he did not see him, and straight down the main street rode Bob,
jerking his jaded horse to a slithering stop in front of the Buck Horn.
He swung down and strode quickly inside.
Buck Kelly was at the bar, talking to a couple of cow-boys from the 76
outfit, while several more punchers were playing a game of pool and
arguing loudly. Bob strode to the bar and up to Kelly.
“Buck,” said Bob hoarsely, “John Fann was shot a while ago--shot from
behind, while he was on the cañon road between here and the JHF.”
“Shot!” gasped Kelly, and his face paled slightly.
“Old John the Baptist?” queried one of the cowboys.
Came the clatter of dropped cues and the pool-playing cowboys gathered
around.
“He wasn’t dead when I left,” said Bob. “Splinter’s with him. Shot in
the head, boys. We saw the man who done the job, but we don’t know who
he was. He headed for town.”
“For ----’s sake!” blurted Kelly. “Who do yuh suppose done it, Bob?”
Kelly was shaking in his shoes. He knew that the sheriff had gone out
there to hold up John Fann, and he wondered if John Fann had put up
such a battle that the sheriff had been forced to shoot him.
“You told the sheriff?” asked a cowboy.
Bob shook his head.
“Ain’t had time. Does anybody know if Doc. Knowles is in town?”
“I see him go into Pelliser’s store about five minutes ago,” volunteered
a cowboy. “I’ll find him.”
He whirled and ran out of the door, and almost collided with the
sheriff, who was coming in. He shoved the sheriff aside and ran across
the street.
Bob grasped the sheriff by the arm and told him as quickly as he could
of what had happened. Kelly was looking straight at the sheriff and
their eyes met. The sheriff seemed to have grown old, tired; not at all
himself.
“Old John Fann,” he repeated. “Shot in the head. All right, I’ll get a
horse and be right with yuh, Bob.”
He turned and went out of the door. The cowboy was coming back to the
saloon, bringing Doctor Knowles, a grayhaired physician who had spent
most of his life in the Bunch Grass hills.
“What’s this?” he demanded anxiously. “John the Baptist shot? Somebody
help me hitch up my buggy-team. We’ll take him home. Best place for him.
Team’s in my barn and the buggy’s in the yard. Be with you in a moment.”