“Well, let’s go, Kern, I’m ready.”
“You ain’t runnin’ this party,” stated Bob, a half-grin on his face.
“Yuh see, yo’re a dangerous person, and I’m waitin’ for daylight.”
“What’s the idea?”
“Bob, you don’t mean that, do you?” asked John Fann quickly. “Are you
going to let every one----”
“He wants to show me to everybody,” interrupted Barr. “Somebody better
make him a banner to carry.”
“Well--” John Fann shook his head--“I don’t know what it is all about,
but you’re taking a big chance of having your prisoner taken away from
you, Bob.”
“Yeah, I s’pose,” nodded Bob sadly. “This is the first man I ever
arrested, and yuh hadn’t ought to try and stop me from advertisin’ it,
John.”
John Fann squinted closely at Bob. He knew Bob too well to accept
such a shallow excuse. There was something beside vanity connected
with bringing Barr Wyeth into Bunch Grass in daylight, but John Fann
did not know what it was.
Ma Fann cleared away the dishes and food. On the shelf an old alarm
clock ticked noisily. Each of the five people in the little kitchen was
deep in his own thoughts. One of the babies cried fitfully and Ma Fann
bustled out of the room. Barr Wyeth lifted his head and looked at his
wife, but she was staring down at the table-cloth. He turned and looked
at Bob Kern.
“It’s goin’ to be hard on them,” he said softly, meaning the babies.
There was no bitterness in his voice now.
Bob smiled softly and eased himself in his chair.
* * * * *
For half an hour the inhabitants of Bunch Grass carried water from all
available wells, formed a bucket-brigade and did everything possible to
save Doctor Knowles’ office and home, but to no avail.
At five o’clock in the morning a cowboy, coming out of the Buck Horn,
had seen the flames inside the house. Quickly he had sounded the alarm.
The place was an inferno when enough men arrived to carry out Mellody,
the wounded cowboy, who had been slightly scorched. The doctor’s desk
and a few pieces of furniture had been saved, but the rest of it went
up in the flames that threatened to sweep the whole town.
No one knew the cause of the fire. Doctor Knowles swore that he had
left no lamp burning, and at that time of the year there was no need
of a fire, except for cooking purposes. Shortly after daylight the
town began to fill up with people from the outlying districts, who
made Saturday sort of a gala shopping day. They gazed upon the ruins,
wished aloud that they had been there to see the blaze, and went on
about their business.
As usual, Pastry Pell was much in evidence and told a graphic story of
the fire. He had been drinking, and as a result the stories were totally
different. Buck Kelly’s trade started early, and the thirst-burdened
cattlemen crowded the place to capacity.
It had been decided that Chet Gunning’s funeral would be held that
afternoon, and the conversation naturally turned to the excitement of
the last few days. There was much argument over the robbery of John
the Baptist, but that was secondary to the killing of the sheriff.
“And there ain’t been nothin’ done to lay the deadwood on Barr Wyeth
either,” declared “Butch” Fletcher, who owned the Flying-M outfit.
“It’s a ---- of a note when a feller can shoot the sheriff and git
plumb away without even havin’ anybody on his trail.”
“Been wires sent to every sheriff,” said another cattleman, who was so
badly crosseyed that no one could ever tell in which direction he was
looking.
“Might as well send ’em a Christmas present,” grunted Butch. “Catch him
and string him up, that’s my motto.”
Whisky began to percolate widely and it appeared that Chet Gunning was
a bloodbrother to every cow-man in the town. A few more drinks, and all
they lived for was revenge.
It was about ten o’clock when a half-drunk cowboy floundered into the
Buck Horn and blurted out news that sent every man in the place on a
run for the door. Bob Kern was riding into town with Barr Wyeth, and
just behind them came John the Baptist, Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth in a
buggy.
Andy Allard saw them, too. He darted back to Splinter’s cell, threw open
the door and handed the surprized Splinter a Winchester rifle.
“C’m on!” he blurted. “What in ----’s the use of havin’ a prisoner, if
yuh don’t use him?”
Splinter trotted out behind him and they raced up the street, shoving
cartridges into the loading-gates of their rifles.
The crowd from the Buck Horn had swung out into the street, and almost
surrounded Bob and Barr. Andy and Splinter shoved their way through and
waved the crowd back.
Butch Fletcher shoved his way to the front.
“Yuh might as well cave in and let us have him,” he declared. “It’ll
save trouble and expense.”
Most of the crowd were half-drunk and Bob knew they were in a dangerous
mood, but he only grinned and shook his head.
“Butch, yo’re a four-flusher,” he said slowly.
“The ---- I am!” Butch snapped.
He turned and looked at those about him.
“Are we goin’ to let him get away with this kinda stuff?”
“No!” yelled a voice at the rear of the crowd. “Git a rope!”
“That sounded like Pastry Pell,” said Bob, standing up in his stirrups
and peering over the crowd; but the owner of the voice had ducked.
“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?” asked Andy impatiently. “I’m itchin’ to
ruin the census.”
“You fellers want to lynch him, don’tcha?” queried Bob.
“We’re goin’ to lynch him,” corrected Butch.
“Without givin’ him a chance to tell his story?”
“What in ---- story has he got to tell?” demanded Buck Kelly. “This is a
dead open-and-shut case.”
“Still, he’s got a right to tell his side, ain’t he?”
There were murmurs of approval.
“Let him tell it,” agreed Butch. “We don’t have to believe it, do we,
Kern?”
“No,” Bob shook his head. “I ain’t askin’ yuh to believe it--just to
listen, Butch.”
“All right, let him go ahead and tell us,” agreed Butch.
Barr looked questioningly at Bob. He had no defense--nothing to tell
that would help his case in any way. The crowd moved in closer and
ranged in sort of a semi-circle, so that all might see and hear.
Directly in front of Bob and Barr was Buck Kelly, Butch Fletcher,
Mark Ells.
Pastry Pell had summoned up enough courage to shove his way to the
front, and now he was at the edge of the circle to the right of the
two mounted men.
Andy and Splinter still held their rifles ready for action and watched
the crowd.
“Well, why in ---- don’t he talk?” asked one of the men. “He had so ----
much to say, didn’t he?”
“I know his story better than he does,” said Bob slowly, “so he won’t
mind if I tell it for him. This story kinda dates back a little bit,
gents. It starts with the stealin’ of JHF cattle by a man who rides a
horse that wears a bar-shoe. We found a yearling with the JHF blotted
and the Lightnin’ run on. That was Barr Wyeth’s start.”
“That’s a good story,” applauded a cowboy.
“Barr Wyeth hated John Fann,” continued Bob, “and that was a good
excuse for him to steal JHF cattle. Chet Gunnin’ found out about the
rustlin’ and the word kinda got to Barr Wyeth. Naturally, he gets mad
and declares war. He tries to kill John Fann with a bottle of hooch,
but missed a bull’s-eye by an inch.
“Barr Wyeth drank and gambled away his ranch to Buck Kelly, and he needs
money goshawful bad. John Fann mortgages his ranch to Buck Kelly for
eight thousand dollars and starts home with the money, when he gets shot
with a forty-four bullet and robbed of his money.
“Barr Wyeth was in the cañon at that time, and the man who shot and
robbed John Fann rode a horse that wore a bar-shoe. I know this, because
I found where he had stood when he fired the shot and I trailed that
bar-shoe over the rim of the cañon. Kinda looks like Barr Wyeth kept up
the good work, don’t it?”
The crowd grunted an approval. They were interested in this story,
because the most of it was new to them.
“It must ’a’ been Barr Wyeth,” continued Bob. “There were only three
men, Buck Kelly, Judge Freeman and John Fann, who knew about the
mortgage money. And I’ll tell yuh why John Fann drew that money. It
was to help Barr Wyeth pay off his debts.
“John Fann thought that Barr was stealin’ cows to try and pay off his
debts, and he was goin’ to give Barr this money.”
“How did Barr know that John Fann had this money?” asked Butch Fletcher.
“That’s got me beat,” grinned Bob, and looked at the blank face of his
prisoner.
He turned and looked at the three people in the buggy. Nell Wyeth’s
face was very white and she turned away, a look of loathing for his
apparently deliberate speech of accusation. Ma Fann tried to smile
at Bob, but it was a pitiful attempt to show that she still had
confidence in him.
“Then,” said Bob, turning back to the crowd, “there comes the shootin’
of Chet Gunnin’. I seen a lot of that. Barr Wyeth accused Gunnin’ of
havin’ a hand in the robbin’ of John Fann, but I don’t _sabe_ what he
meant.
“Anyway, Barr dove out through the window, Chet rushes out through the
door and starts shootin’. Somebody plugs him twice and he’s dead.”
Bob stopped and looked around at the circle of faces.
“Barr Wyeth shoots a forty-four Colt gun, gents; remember this.
There’s a certain party in Bunch Grass who delights in packin’ lies.
Mebbe he can’t help it. Some folks can’t, especially if they want to
start a conversation. I mean Pastry Pell.”
All eyes turned to Pastry, who tried to back into the crowd, but they
closed ranks and stopped him.
“Yeah, he lied to Barr Wyeth about the JHF and he lied to the JHF
about the Lightnin’. Now, we’ll get back to the cattle rustlin’.
Over five hundred head of the JHF stock has faded away, and that’s
some cows, gents. It’s a man-sized job to dispose of that many cows.
Yuh can’t blot brands and get away with it. No sir, you’ve got to be
slicker than that.
“It had me fightin’ my head for a long time, but along comes a cowboy
from Wyomin’ and hands me the key. He’s lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B
outfit. Ever hear of it?”
The cattlemen shook their heads. It was not a known brand.
“I didn’t _sabe_ it,” grinned Bob. “This puncher is looking for a job
with that outfit. He said that the owner of that brand had driven a
lot of stock over into Wyoming and sold ’em to the outfit he worked
for. Sold ’em cheap, too. Said the range was burnt out over here.
“This was the same puncher that Splinter was supposed to have leaded up
in a poker game.”
“Supposed to?” queried Kelly. “Whatcha mean, Kern?”
“What I just said,” replied Bob softly. “Splinter was too drunk to shoot
anybody. Mellody had a bullet in him and there’s one in the floor under
the table, Buck. That bullet nicked Mellody’s boot.”
“Well, whatcha drivin’ at?” asked Butch Fletcher.
“Here’s what I mean,” said Bob coldly. “Wyeth’s horse that wore the
bar-shoe has been dead a month. The shoes are still on its hoofs. Barr
Wyeth is too wise to half-blot a JHF and smear on a Lightnin’ brand.
Somebody knew of the bar-shoe and they didn’t know that Wyeth’s horse
was dead. They bungled the brand-blottin’ to cover their own work.”
“That’s just yore idea, ain’t it?” queried a cowboy.
“Yeah, that’s right,” smiled Bob; “but yuh must remember that a rider of
a bar-shoe horse shot and robbed John Fann. Yes sir, and they shot him
with a forty-four bullet, but--” Bob fumbled in his pocket and drew out
the cartridge shell he had found near the cañon rim--“here’s the shell
of that cartridge. It’s swelled so it won’t fit a forty-four.”
Bob held it up for them to see.
“Gents, that shell was fired from a forty-five gun!”
“What does that mean?” asked Kelly, a trifle nervously.
“Just that and nothin’ more, Kelly,” replied Bob. “I’m tellin’ this tale
as fast as I can. As I told yuh before, Barr Wyeth shoots a forty-four
gun. The bullets that Doctor Knowles took out of Chet Gunnin’ were
forty-fives.”
“The ---- they were!” exploded Andy Allard. “I never knowed that.”
“Here’s what happened,” explained Bob. “Somebody was just gettin’ off
their horse in front of the JHF ranchhouse when Chet busts out and
starts shootin’. They just naturally shoots back at him. Barr Wyeth
couldn’t ’a’ fired them shots.”
“Well, who in ---- did?” demanded Butch Fletcher.
“You’d accuse me of guessin’, if I told yuh,” grinned Bob, “but I’ll
tell yuh some more. This Mellody cowpuncher comes lookin’ for the
Ten-Bar-B outfit, of which there ain’t no such an animal--not
visible.
“Accordin’ to Hoyle he ain’t supposed to come here after that
ghost-outfit, and there’s certain folks who ain’t noways in favor of
his comin’. He gets drunk and sets into a poker game, gents. Then he
turns his head and sees the owner of the Ten-Bar-B outfit coming
in.”
Bob eased back in his saddle and his muscles seemed to draw taut.
“Pastry Pell,” he said slowly, “you stay where you are.”
Bob’s eyes drew down and he moved a trifle sideways in his saddle.
“Gents, the man who stole JHF cows; the man who shot and robbed John
Fann; the man who killed Chet Gunnin’ and the man who sold the Ten-Bar-B
cows to the Wyomin’ outfit is the same man. If you take the JHF brand,
make an O out of the J, make the F into a B and draw a bar in front of
the O, you’ve got the Ten-Bar-B.”
A murmur of astonishment came from the audience.
“By ----, that’s right!” exploded Butch Fletcher. “Who----”
“And this Mellody got shot because he recognized him,” gritted Bob.
“There was two shots, gents. Splinter was so drunk that he never knew
that they took his gun and fired it into the floor. The hole is there
under the poker-table and there’s a notch in Mellody’s boot-sole.”
“But who in ---- was it?” panted Andy, never taking his eyes off the
circle.
“A man who talked too much; a man who shoots a forty-five six-gun--our
harmless friend, Pastry Pell!”
* * * * *
Pastry Pell’s gun had always been a joke in the Bunch Grass country,
but his joke-gun was only part of his harmless make-up. Swiftly as Bob
Kern could draw, he would have been far too slow, but Andy was watching
closely and fired the Winchester from his hip.
And almost over the spouting muzzle of that rifle, straight out of
his saddle plunged Bob Kern, and his arms wrapped in a death-like
grip around the body of Buck Kelly. They crashed back into the crowd,
just as Pastry Pell spun on his heel and went face-down, riddled with
bullets from the Winchester.
The crowd dragged Bob and Buck to their feet, and Andy managed to snap
handcuffs onto Buck’s wrists.
“What did Buck have to do with it?” demanded Butch excitedly.
“He was the brains of it,” panted Bob. “It took brains to figure that
brand, Butch. I never suspicioned Buck until Mellody got shot. He shot
Mellody because Mellody recognized Pastry as the owner of the Ten-Bar-B,
and they knew the game was up.”