He nodded slowly and turned to the two cowboys.
“Be cir-r-cumspect, will ye? I’ve an errand just now.”
He turned on his heel and crossed the street toward the little millinery
store, while the two cowboys looked at each other. They grinned as they
turned toward a saloon entrance.
“What in the ---- is he goin’ to do there?” wondered Dick.
“He’s not goin’ to buy hats, that’s a cinch,” laughed Biddy.
Old Rory rattled his spurs up to the door and knocked loudly. After a
moment the door creaked half-way open and a faded-looking little woman
stared out at him.
“I’m lookin’ for Miss Della Mar-r-rsh,” he told her. “She wor-rks here,
I’ve been told.”
The little woman shook her head quickly. “She did work here,” she said,
as if apologizing, “but they gave her a position over in the bank, Mr.
McPherson. She has been there nearly a week now.”
Old Rory stared at her, turned his head slowly and squinted at the hated
building.
“Over there?” He jerked his thumb in that direction. “Do ye mean to say
that she’s wor-r-rkin’ in that building, ma’am?”
“Yes--for the bank.”
“Oh, ho-o-o! For the bank, ye say? Now what the ---- do ye know about
that?”
The door shut quickly behind him. But he did not mind. In fact he had
forgotten all about the little milliner lady. He clenched his freckled
old hands until the knuckles looked like rows of white marbles, and his
lower jaw jutted angrily. There was no question but what Rory McPherson
was very angry.
He started across the street toward the bank, but changed his mind and
went to the saloon, where he found Dick and Biddy at the bar.
“Have a little drink, Rory?” invited Biddy, moving aside to give the old
man room.
But Rory shook his head angrily.
“I’ve no stomach for-r-r anythin’ in this town!” he snorted. “I’ve been
insulted by me own flesh and blood. It may not be a Christian thing to
tak’ the name of the Lord in vain, but right noo I’m gr-r-ropin’ for
wor-r-rds that will fit the occasion.”
“What’s gone wrong?” queried Dick Clarey.
“Wrong? Did ye say wrong, Dick? Everythin’! Della has gone to wor-r-rk
for that----”
Old Rory shut his lips tightly, and his beard lifted like the hair on
the back of an angry dog.
Dick and Biddy understood what he meant. Biddy fingered his glass, his
head cocked on one side thoughtfully.
“At the ranch, Rory?” he asked.
“In the bank, Biddy.”
“What doin’?” queried Dick.
“No matter what doin’!” snorted Rory. “It’s another of his dir-rty
deals. I came here to take her awa’ from the makin’ of hats. No job
is that for a bit o’ a lass; not while her uncle has a cent. And I
find her wor-rkin’ for--that! Shamin’ me, he is.”
The old man’s voice trembled with anger, but he threw up his head and
turned to the bar, which he thumbed with his clenched fist.
“Gi’e me whusky,” he ordered hoarsely. “When ye’r hear-rt tells ye to
kill--drink whusky for ballast. Gi’e me the bottle, will ye? That glass
is no sup for a sufferin’ mon.”
After a few big drinks Rory was well organized for anything. His Scotch
brogue grew more broad, but the whisky softened his bitterness. A vacant
chair at a poker table called to him; so he sat down to play, while Dick
and Biddy slipped out of the place and went down to the bank. They knew
that the old man was good for several hours and several more drinks, and
that he was not liable to get into trouble while under the influence of
liquor. It seemed that liquor softened his nature, although his
conversation became so full of burs that no one could understand him.
They found Della Marsh in the bank; a slip of a girl, with an oval face
framed in a mass of brown hair. There seemed to be a perpetual sadness
about her wide, blue eyes, and she greeted them with a wistful smile.
“How long have yuh been here, Dell?” asked Dick.
“About a week, Dick. How is Rainbow Valley?”
“Fine. The old man came in with us.”
“Uncle Rory? Where is he?”
“Over in the Eagle saloon. Say, Dell, he’s sore as a boil.”
“Sore? What about, Dick?”
Dick lowered his voice:
“Because you’re workin’ here. You know this bank belongs to Big Jim
Mott, don’tcha?”
“Why, yes, I know it. But I don’t see--”
“Listen,” interrupted Biddy. “He came in today to get yuh to go back
to the ranch, Dell. He knowed that yuh was workin’ at that millinery
store. He wants yuh to come back home. I reckon we all want yuh to
come back, too, Dell.”
Biddy shuffled his feet nervously. Della looked at him, her eyes
smiling. But she shook her head slowly:
“No, I don’t want to go back there, Biddy. I don’t want to be dependent
on any one, don’t you see? I can make my own living.”
“That’s true,” nodded Biddy. “If it was anybody but Mott.”
“You didn’t ask for the job, did yuh, Dell?” asked Dick.
Della colored slightly, but shook her head.
“No, I didn’t, Dick. Mr. Mott asked me if I wanted to work in the bank.
It is not hard work.”
“It’ll sure be hard for Rory McPherson,” declared Biddy.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” said Della wistfully. “I wish that Uncle
Rory and Mr. Mott would be friends. Mr. Mott seems so big and generous;
not at all as I had believed him to be.”
“A snake is slick,” muttered Biddy, “and a coyote ain’t no homely
critter.”
“That is unkind, Biddy,” said Della softly.
“Ex-cuse me,” said Biddy quickly. “I was thinkin’ outloud. And we just
found out the other day that Jim Mott owns the old XO-Bar-5.”
“The XO-Bar-5?” questioned Della wonderingly. “Why, I thought it
belonged to Marvin Crane.”
“Well, it don’t,” declared Biddy. “He was just runnin’ it.”
“Then it was Mott who--”
Della stopped and stared out through the open door.
“Yeah,” nodded Dick seriously. “It was Big Jim Mott who sent Tex Rowland
to the penitentiary, Dell. Of course, yuh can’t hold a thing like that
ag’in’ Mott; but it was him--not Crane.”
The three were silent for several moments. Then Della looked at both men
and spoke softly--
“Is there any news of Tex?”
Biddy shook his head:
“Not a word, Dell. Accordin’ to the papers they can’t find a trace of
him. He made a clean getaway.”
“Will he ever come back here, do you think?”
Biddy shook his head slowly.
“No, I don’t reckon he will, Dell. It’s hard to tell where old Tex
will hole-up. He’s been out almost a month. Well, I reckon we better
be goin’, Dell.”
They shook hands with her and went outside, heading back to the saloon.
“She sure thinks a lot of old Tex,” observed Dick.
Biddy nodded:
“The old crooked-nosed son-of-a-gun. By golly, Dick, he was a danged
good feller. They don’t make ’em better than Tex Rowland. He was homely
as the ----, wasn’t he? Kinda like findin’ an old bent can, without any
label; and when yuh open it up yuh find she’s full of peaches. That’s
old Tex--a peach on the inside.”
* * * * *
At the doorway of the saloon they met Jack Lohman, the sheriff, whose
office was at Welcome, the county seat. He was a tall, squint-eyed man,
and as hard as the job he had been voted into.
“Hyah, Lohman,” greeted Biddy, as they shook hands. “How’s the law and
order comin’?”
“’Sall right,” grinned Lohman. “How’s crime?”
“Doin’ right well. Whatcha doin’ down in this neck of the woods?”
“Electioneerin’.”
“Thasso?” Biddy grinned widely. “You’re startin’ early, ain’t yuh? You
was only re-elected last Fall. I’ll bet you’re lookin’ for Tex Rowland.”
Lohman grinned, but grew serious, as he said:
“Kinda funny they never located Tex. Either he’s smarter than the law,
or he’s lucky as ----. They were on his trail within ten minutes after
he went out through the gate; but he sure faded complete-like. He don’t
know nothin’, except punchin’ cows, and some day he’ll be picked up on
some cow-ranch.”
“It won’t be in this end of the country,” said Dick. “He wouldn’t be
fool enough to come back here.”
“Suits me,” said Lohman. “I ain’t got nothin’ against Tex. He always
treated me fine, and as far as I’m concerned he can stay out of jail. I
got a letter from McHague, the warden at the pen, the other day tellin’
me to watch out for Tex around here.”
“And you’d pick him up in a minute, too,” grinned Biddy.
“I wonder if I would,” said Lohman seriously.
“That calls for a drink,” said Dick warmly. “You ain’t on the wagon, are
yuh, Lohman? Or mebbe the law don’t allow yuh to drink.”
“I never swore I wouldn’t,” laughed Lohman, and they went to the bar
together.
Old Rory McPherson did not seem to be having any great luck at poker.
He played a hard game, but not a scientific one. He did not bluff; but
played every hand for what he thought it was worth.
“I’ll not lie,” he told them seriously. “’Tis the Scotch in me, I’m
thinkin’.”
“It’s the rye in yuh, yuh mean,” grumbled a disgruntled player, who had
tried to bluff the old man out of a good pot, only to find him holding a
full-house.
“Rory don’t come down here very often, does he?” asked Lohman.
“Not any oftener than he has to,” assured Biddy. “He ain’t got much use
for Antelope. Him and Big Jim ain’t friendly, yuh know.”
“Too bad,” said Lohman. “It kinda splits this country. I was over to the
Lightnin’ ranch yesterday. Pablo acted like I wasn’t a bit welcome.”
“Nobody welcome around there,” grinned Biddy. “As far as I’m concerned,
they don’t need to welcome me. ‘Paint’ Pablo is loco over pinto horses.
I hear he sold a car-load to some circus.”
“He’s a breed, ain’t he?” asked Lohman.
“Nez Perce and French,” said Dick, “with the rattle-snake
predominatin’.”
Lohman laughed and turned back to the bar.
“I’m ridin’ out to the Dice ranch today,” he said. “Big Jim told me
about a horse he had out there, and it’s about what I want. He’s got
some good stock out there, I guess.”
“He ought to have,” observed Biddy. “He’s got enough money to just about
raise the kind he wants.”
“Yeah, I reckon he gets what he wants,” said Lohman.
“He tries, anyway,” said Dick. “It’s gettin’ so a man can’t work around
here, unless he works for Mott.”
“Or for Rory McPherson,” laughed Lohman.
“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Biddy. “Rainbow Valley ain’t as big as
Antelope--but it’s clean, Lohman.”
Some one had come in the saloon as Biddy started to speak, and he turned
to see Big Jim Mott looking at him. Mott had heard Biddy’s statement,
and he seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and came up
to the bar.
Big Jim did not belie his name; he was big. He was well over six-feet
tall, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, weighing about two hundred
and forty pounds. But he was not fat. His face was blocky of contour,
his nose a trifle too small for the rest of his face. He was less than
forty years of age, but looked to be more, as his close-cropped hair
was brushed with gray.
Big Jim dressed well. His linen was immaculate, clothes well pressed and
boots shining. A big diamond glistened on a finger of his left hand,
while another decorated his necktie. Except for his range clothes, he
might be mistaken for a heavy-weight politician.
And it would not be a very great mistake, at that. While he did not come
out openly in the political field, it was well known that Big Jim Mott’s
hand was one of the few that stirred the political pot of the state.
He had never aspired to office; but was content to sit back and help
pull the strings.
The bartender handed out a box of expensive cigars and Big Jim scooped
out a handful. He carelessly tossed a bill on to the bar and turned
away without asking for his change. Old Rory McPherson had cashed in
his chips and was leaving the game, when he looked up and saw Big Jim
looking at him.
Big Jim calmly bit the end off a cigar and lighted a match, ignoring the
tall Scot who stared at him malevolently. Dick, Biddy and the sheriff
grinned in anticipation of the coming clash.
“The coyotes ar-re not all holed up yet, I obser-r-rve,” said old Rory
distinctly.
Big Jim glanced at him indifferently, but the insult was too direct to
ignore completely.
“Were you speaking to me?” he asked.
“Not to ye,” said old Rory. “If I did, I would expect ye to bark or
howl.”
Big Jim’s brows drew down over his eyes and the cigar was crushed under
the pressure of his big fingers. There was a vast difference in their
ages, and he could hardly expect to fight a man of Rory’s age.
“You appear to be hunting trouble, McPherson,” he said.
“Ye are a man of discernment, Mott.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Am I now? Since when did ye refuse to fight a drunken man?”